In high school, I ran cross country, not because I was good but because I loved it. I ran so many miles in the summer and worked hard at practices, but was never one of the team's top runners and usually had to fight my way on to the varsity squad. During most races, I fell toward the back of the pack, but the pain and defeat was never enough to discourage me from participating in the gruesome sport.
I ran because it was a piece of me.
During one particular race, I remember the mother of one of my teammate's screaming "fight through the wall" as I ran by her. That idea, busting through a brick of metaphorical obstacle, has stuck with me through other difficult runs and I often cheer those words in my head during long runs riddled with stiffness and side stitches.
It's been helpful in other realms of my life. Some days, life is unfair, uncooperative and a down right jerk. When my head is buried in my hands and tears are flowing, I think about that wall and busting through it. On the other side, their is calmness and success.
No, I never won a state title or even a race. But, I was respected by teammates and voted captain two years in a row. I still won, just in a different way than I thought.
I will win again, but it might not be the exact trophy I envision and I trample that wall, but I'll do it and I'll succeed.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Tuesday, March 09, 2010
Mystery man
Every so often, our paths cross – a coffee shop, a concert – and I want to attack him with questions. I want to grab his hand, sit him down and listen as he pours out his story, one I think I know but really don’t, over tea and "I completely understand"s.
Instead, I casually glance his way then look down as if we are strangers.
We are strangers. I only know his name and existence because of an obsession that I still can’t seem to drop and I am sure my name wouldn’t ring a bell if he heard it. Yes, we have friends in common, but our links are broken on both sides, which drives my interest in him.
When I happen to see him, I pretend that I know his story, an innocent bystander and pain absorbent to someone else's love story. I imagine that I understand his actions and the grief he is processing. Sometimes, I even believe I could help him.
Truth is, I don't know his story at all and may have it completely backwards. He could very well be the villain in this story and I would never know it, or believe it.
What attracts me most to him is the mystery of not knowing much or anything about him all. This fascination may seem insane, but, to me, it highlights my compassion and addiction to a good story.
I can almost guarantee that we'll never meet (this isn't the first time I adopted some heartbroken sap to be a well for my pity) and that's OK. Maybe he receives my sympathic thoughts from afar, and it's probably best that way.
Instead, I casually glance his way then look down as if we are strangers.
We are strangers. I only know his name and existence because of an obsession that I still can’t seem to drop and I am sure my name wouldn’t ring a bell if he heard it. Yes, we have friends in common, but our links are broken on both sides, which drives my interest in him.
When I happen to see him, I pretend that I know his story, an innocent bystander and pain absorbent to someone else's love story. I imagine that I understand his actions and the grief he is processing. Sometimes, I even believe I could help him.
Truth is, I don't know his story at all and may have it completely backwards. He could very well be the villain in this story and I would never know it, or believe it.
What attracts me most to him is the mystery of not knowing much or anything about him all. This fascination may seem insane, but, to me, it highlights my compassion and addiction to a good story.
I can almost guarantee that we'll never meet (this isn't the first time I adopted some heartbroken sap to be a well for my pity) and that's OK. Maybe he receives my sympathic thoughts from afar, and it's probably best that way.
Sunday, March 07, 2010
My Mother
When I find an awesome deal at the store or I've spent more than I should, I go to her.
When something wonderful happens or life throws too many obstacles at once, I go to her.
When I need advice or someone to yell and scream at, I go to her.
When I can't make a decision or I need reassurance on the decisions I did make, I go to her.
When my car acts up or I want to brag about something I fixed on my own, I go to her.
I am not perfect and neither is she, but I wouldn't lover her so much if we were. My anxiety and worry behaviors come from her, but so does my unending compassion and resilience. She is my rock, even when I am too stubborn to admit that I need a rock. She let's me scream at her because I can't scream at the people I'm really angry with. She still loves and wants to spend time with me when I'm irritable and my mind is elsewhere. She forces me to let her buy me things. She might not like my wanderlust dreams, but she still wants me to pursue them. She hates anyone who brings tears to my eyes and loves the people who make me happy just as much as I do. She is the most beautiful person I know and I pray that she knows that. Every day, I miss her and I'm awful at showing it. Along with my father, she is the one person on this planet who always, always has my back.
To my beautiful, kind, loving, wonderful mother, happy 50th birthday. You mean the world to me and I appreciate all that you have given me. Thank you for being my go to. You deserve all the best in this world and I pray that you receive it. Love, love, love you.
Saturday, March 06, 2010
Friday night
Please, stop, I pleaded with myself as I took a sip of the newly purchased water. I hoped the cool liquid would refresh my insides and attitude. Still, seven minutes till my estimated arrival and I wanted the whole night to forget about me. But, I don’t quit easily. I looked myself in the eyes using the review mirror. Hair was fine. No black smudges under my eyes. It’s time to go and be me, or at least pretend.
--
The city doesn’t seem to care that I slice through it at 11 p.m., going faster than I should at times. Minnesota Avenue, then 41st, then Louise Avenue. At stop lights, I peer into the nearby cars and wonder about their destination and state of peace at the moment. I use the stop time to realign my thinking and topics of conversation as if the drive across town is an elaborate costume change for my personality.
--
Normally, I’m shy around people who’ve I met casually. Always afraid of being bothersome, I let them come to me and pretend to not notice them until they do. Tonight, that wall of protection and insecurity wasn’t built and I approached most of them with a smile and a compliment. They saw me in a way I’ve never saw myself — charming. It’s been a while since I’ve felt charming.
--
So much has changed in both of our lives since the last time we shared a drink. Our changes had led our lives in complete opposite directions, but our friendship has never been questioned. There is no 3 a.m. drinking spells, just one drink (water for me) and a booth in the corner. Poor innocent intoxicated men walk by and she playfully harasses them. That part about her hasn’t changed. She is still my friend.
--
Couples dot all the places I go tonight. Some casually look at art while the female gently holds on to the male’s arm. One talks intensely and, at times, a bit loudly over raw fish. Short-lived ones form under the guidance of too much booze. And a few fill the driver and passenger seat of cars headed home. Me, I begin and finish the evening alone, an idea I’m sometimes OK with and sometimes not.
--
I’m blessed with a chunk of time to quietly absorb the art. The sketches and scribbled writing move me into a trance. I was present when most of the creations were conceived but I feel as if they came from far away. Tears and a flood emotion flow through my body. I’ve never seen a mass of paper hold such beauty. I never want to know any other feeling about the people who created this art.
--
We are not hip-hop connoisseurs or even hip-hop fans, but this music has captured us all. It’s only a short drive from the gallery to our restaurant, but it was enough for us to fall for the swaying lyrics and beats. We do not the words, but I remember the moment as if we were all singing from the top of our lungs. Downtown is gorgeous at this moment, so is the three other women in the car. I’m attacked with joy.
--
My phone beeped throughout the night with messages of “Where are you?” and “What are you going to do tonight?” One came from a friend hiding out in a city on the other side of the country. “Wish you were here.” I am happy with my role in life at the moment, but want to be with him too. I smiled. He ran away from life, but wanted my company. It’s the most genuine compliment I’ve ever received.
--
Friday is on its last moments of life as I make another trip across town. From an art gallery, to a college bar to my friends’ apartment, the different parts of my life made an appearance. I try to pinpoint which is the real me, but it’s the combination that defines who I am. Sometimes, I want to be just one of those personalities, but that isn’t being true to who I am. I need them all to be me.
--
We are loud, and probably obnoxious to the creatives around us. We don’t care. New and old friends meet in this hodgepodge circle and instant inside jokes are created. It’s the silliness of life and bringing down barriers that unites the group. I should be more attentive to the art or the other people in the room, but making fun of ourselves seems so much more creative. This is art; we are art.
--
Huddle on an old leather couch, we direct our attention to a small computer screen instead of the large TV in the background. The three of us chuckle and I “awe” (or, I make that distinctive female noise since I’m the only female in the room) as our favorite TV couple gives birth. I only watch two TV shows and this one is much more enjoyable with friends, especially these friends. It’s a perfect ending to my night.
--
Sushi has become our tradition, so we split up the art galleries with a trip to one of our favorite downtown locales. Two of us are vegetarians and one is Catholic, so our orders would seem lame to sushi snobs. The food is only a side dish to the giggling main course. The sparkling downtown lights and cozy restaurant transport me and my shitty attitude is swapped out for a very alive one.
--
The long day caps off a long week, and I am ready to swim in my covers. Before retiring, I open a package with a Montana address. It’s a beautifully hand-made necklace with a note that said, “This makes me think of you.” Such sweet words. I drift to sleep with a content heart and a deep appreciation for all the people who filled my day. I wanted to be me. I was and the universe rewarded me.
--
The city doesn’t seem to care that I slice through it at 11 p.m., going faster than I should at times. Minnesota Avenue, then 41st, then Louise Avenue. At stop lights, I peer into the nearby cars and wonder about their destination and state of peace at the moment. I use the stop time to realign my thinking and topics of conversation as if the drive across town is an elaborate costume change for my personality.
--
Normally, I’m shy around people who’ve I met casually. Always afraid of being bothersome, I let them come to me and pretend to not notice them until they do. Tonight, that wall of protection and insecurity wasn’t built and I approached most of them with a smile and a compliment. They saw me in a way I’ve never saw myself — charming. It’s been a while since I’ve felt charming.
--
So much has changed in both of our lives since the last time we shared a drink. Our changes had led our lives in complete opposite directions, but our friendship has never been questioned. There is no 3 a.m. drinking spells, just one drink (water for me) and a booth in the corner. Poor innocent intoxicated men walk by and she playfully harasses them. That part about her hasn’t changed. She is still my friend.
--
Couples dot all the places I go tonight. Some casually look at art while the female gently holds on to the male’s arm. One talks intensely and, at times, a bit loudly over raw fish. Short-lived ones form under the guidance of too much booze. And a few fill the driver and passenger seat of cars headed home. Me, I begin and finish the evening alone, an idea I’m sometimes OK with and sometimes not.
--
I’m blessed with a chunk of time to quietly absorb the art. The sketches and scribbled writing move me into a trance. I was present when most of the creations were conceived but I feel as if they came from far away. Tears and a flood emotion flow through my body. I’ve never seen a mass of paper hold such beauty. I never want to know any other feeling about the people who created this art.
--
We are not hip-hop connoisseurs or even hip-hop fans, but this music has captured us all. It’s only a short drive from the gallery to our restaurant, but it was enough for us to fall for the swaying lyrics and beats. We do not the words, but I remember the moment as if we were all singing from the top of our lungs. Downtown is gorgeous at this moment, so is the three other women in the car. I’m attacked with joy.
--
My phone beeped throughout the night with messages of “Where are you?” and “What are you going to do tonight?” One came from a friend hiding out in a city on the other side of the country. “Wish you were here.” I am happy with my role in life at the moment, but want to be with him too. I smiled. He ran away from life, but wanted my company. It’s the most genuine compliment I’ve ever received.
--
Friday is on its last moments of life as I make another trip across town. From an art gallery, to a college bar to my friends’ apartment, the different parts of my life made an appearance. I try to pinpoint which is the real me, but it’s the combination that defines who I am. Sometimes, I want to be just one of those personalities, but that isn’t being true to who I am. I need them all to be me.
--
We are loud, and probably obnoxious to the creatives around us. We don’t care. New and old friends meet in this hodgepodge circle and instant inside jokes are created. It’s the silliness of life and bringing down barriers that unites the group. I should be more attentive to the art or the other people in the room, but making fun of ourselves seems so much more creative. This is art; we are art.
--
Huddle on an old leather couch, we direct our attention to a small computer screen instead of the large TV in the background. The three of us chuckle and I “awe” (or, I make that distinctive female noise since I’m the only female in the room) as our favorite TV couple gives birth. I only watch two TV shows and this one is much more enjoyable with friends, especially these friends. It’s a perfect ending to my night.
--
Sushi has become our tradition, so we split up the art galleries with a trip to one of our favorite downtown locales. Two of us are vegetarians and one is Catholic, so our orders would seem lame to sushi snobs. The food is only a side dish to the giggling main course. The sparkling downtown lights and cozy restaurant transport me and my shitty attitude is swapped out for a very alive one.
--
The long day caps off a long week, and I am ready to swim in my covers. Before retiring, I open a package with a Montana address. It’s a beautifully hand-made necklace with a note that said, “This makes me think of you.” Such sweet words. I drift to sleep with a content heart and a deep appreciation for all the people who filled my day. I wanted to be me. I was and the universe rewarded me.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
The Headlights
It's Wednesday night and it's cold outside. Staying in is perfectly acceptable, said the bassist of The Headlights. They would've if it wasn't their gig.
It's easy to stay in on cold weekday nights. A comfy couch and a good movie are much more appealing than a deserted bar. But The Headlights, of Illinois, didn't cancel or fake illness. They showed up and rocked out.
This evening, I met my friend Lucy roughly two hours before the show started at the venue, a bar in my neighborhood. She works for the promoting company that brought in the band. Since I gave up alcohol for lent, I sipped water and coffee as she washed down one beer. We chatted and played $1 worth of video lottery as the intro bands played.
The show was for 18+ and one of the opening acts seemed to be high school age so much of the crowd was younger than us. A cohort of Brookings folks made the drive up, but other than them, I didn't know anyone. There were a few peculiar individuals in the crowd before The Headlights took the stage. One guy sat in the corner of the bar, fixated on something in his vision and mind. He didn't move his trance for at least four minutes. Another guy, skinny and wearing a Braves hat, floated between the top deck (which housde the only alcohol-serving bar; the main floor bar was closed since the show was open to those younger than 21) and bottom floor. Later, we saw him upstairs sitting with another guy. They didn't talk. Instead, they drank their beer and messed around on their phones. I couldn't explain these people or why they were there because the appeared bored.
When the featuring band took the stage, the faces weren't completely new to me. The lead male vocals was the guy in the corner, the bassist the Braves hat and the drummer the other phone junkie. There was also a female, but I hadn't noticed her before hand.
To be honest, I expected lame from this band. The members looked less than enthused to be playing, especially to a crowd that topped out at 20. But as they played, they found that light inside of them. The one that brings out the music, even on the cold, Wednesday nights to a crowd of 20.
The music flowed and the passion shined. Whether the crowd is 10 or 100, the members of The Headlight would play because it's what they do. It's what they know and it's what the love. They didn't need anyone to reaffirm their decision to follow this path; they do it themselves each time they take the stage.
It inspired me to show up. Tomorrow, maybe only one person will read our site, but I still show up. I still produce something because it's what I do.
It'll be cold tomorrow. I'll be there because I know in, my heart of hearts, that it's what I am supposed to do.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Another new mom
My wonderful and dear friend Laura and her husband Casey had a baby tonight! They welcomed a little boy, Noah Casey. It's crazy because I knew Laura was due this week so I'd been meaning to call her and finally got around to it at about 6:15. I looked at the time and thought that they were probably eating and shouldn't bother them, but I decided to call anyway. I left her a pretty teary message (I was choked up). Noah came at 7:30. I probably called during labor! Happy for Laura and Casey and can't wait to meet Noah!
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Alex
Propped against my kitchen wall, my body trembled as the third round of tears in an hour raged out. It was late on a Friday night and the stress of the week reached the brim of my ability to handle it and was now overflowing. My hypothetical white flag was ready to fly, but I knew that I couldn't give up. Although it was a black blob with a white question mark, there was a reason to keep going and its existence alone was enough for me to pick myself up and go to bed.
The next day, I felt hung over from the devastation and disappointment and couldn't bring myself to think about the situation or answer a phone call that contained an update. My friend Melissa invited me to an event her organization was hosting that evening, and for a reason I can't pinpoint, I knew hope the I craved would be there. That’s the night I met Alex.
Part of the event included writing letters of encouragement to kids at-risk for dropping out of school. I plopped down at the cardboard table and scribbled out supporting statements to 5th, 6th and 7th graders. Alex sat next to me and grabbed a name from the list. My letters contained clichés and over used phrases, such as “follow your dreams” and “I believe in you” while Alex based his sentiments on his own experience of not giving up and graduating even though most of his family expected him to drop out.
Alex seemed to know most of the kids at the event and they him. Many of them came over to him during our letter writing to see what he was doing, as if they wanted to always know what he was doing. He’d joke with them, say something nice and then return to the letters. His demeanor with the staff and other kids pegged him as a regular at the center and one that seemed to value the people and life inside the florescent-lit building. He wore silver glass and facial hair that disrupted my guess at his age (over 18).
Having worked at a pool that was a refuge for children in troubled homes and a domestic abuse shelter, I’ve met kids like Alex before and easily assembled likely stories of his background. I wanted to know everything I could about Alex, but not wanting to scare him, I held off on the usual impromptu interview I cast on someone I think is interesting. So we kept writing and offering small interjections to each other between passages.
Daniel, one of the event’s organizers, joined our letter writing and informed me that Alex was quite the writer, and he promptly confirmed. “I can write a 15 page essay in 15 minutes.” He told me that he loved writing poetry and wanted to study some type of writing in college. I told him that I was also a writer, but a journalist and he should consider that field of study. Since we were in the letter-writing mood, he told me to write him a letter about journalism. Happily, I obliged.
Journalism, especially print, doesn’t have a great reputation these days, but I drew from all of my positive experiences to explain to Alex why a career in journalism is very gratifying and satisfying. I explained to him all the amazing things I’ve experienced through journalism: interviewing an NFL player a week before he won his team a Super Bowl; partaking in a buffalo hunt; learning to ski; covering one of the state’s most heated issues; helping create change; and meeting hundreds of fascinating, passionate people. I tried to forget about the profession’s downfalls and cynicism and relay why it’s truly an amazing career.
When I gave him the letter, he said thank you and that I’ve convinced him to consider journalism. That gave me the hope I so desperately needed. He inspired me to keep going, to keep swinging on the tough days.
I saw Alex again last night at another event. He brought his poems, hoping I would be there so he could share them with me. They were printed in various fonts on several sheets of white printer paper and stored on the right side of a blue binder covered in stickers. He handed the entire stack to me and I read through each one, struggling to keep back the tears. Most very short, the poems portrayed hope, disappointment, loneliness, devastation, anger, love, a cruel world and a beautiful world. A few of the sheets were marked with a pink ‘x’ in the left hand cover, which tagged the ones specific to Alex’s life, he explained.
Although not entirely elegant, these poems did the one thing poetry, or any good writing for that matter, should: evoke emotion. In eight or 10 lines, I saw a boy who’s lived a hard life but isn’t scarred from the unfairness. Despite letdowns, optimism reigns and the fire from his dreams and passion for writing can’t be extinguished.
Despite my best efforts, tears came. His poetry moved me, inspired me and, of course, instilled hope.
While I was reading his poetry, Alex made me a Valentine. In the Valentine to someone who he’s only met twice, he wrote “Thanks for inspiring me to do what I love the most.” He also showed me that on the left side of his binder, the one in which he kept his writing, was the letter I wrote him. He keeps it there and reads it often.
As he was telling me about the letter, I sent up a quick prayer, asking that Alex get everything that he wants and is entitled to in life. I’d make a deal with Devil to ensure success in his life; I want his hope to mean something more than I want my own hope to materialize.
Without even knowing him, Alex was the reason that I could pick myself off the floor that Friday evening and keep pushing through until all our issues were solved. When my days are hard, I think of Alex and his passion and I keep going. Alex is one of the many reasons I do what I do, and if I never see him again, I’ll continually think of him during the rough patches.
The kind of passion and hope Alex posses isn’t something you learn, it’s part of your DNA. It’s his burden and blessing. And it’s something the two of us will share till our deathbeds.
*For the purpose of this blog, Alex is a pseudo name.
The next day, I felt hung over from the devastation and disappointment and couldn't bring myself to think about the situation or answer a phone call that contained an update. My friend Melissa invited me to an event her organization was hosting that evening, and for a reason I can't pinpoint, I knew hope the I craved would be there. That’s the night I met Alex.
Part of the event included writing letters of encouragement to kids at-risk for dropping out of school. I plopped down at the cardboard table and scribbled out supporting statements to 5th, 6th and 7th graders. Alex sat next to me and grabbed a name from the list. My letters contained clichés and over used phrases, such as “follow your dreams” and “I believe in you” while Alex based his sentiments on his own experience of not giving up and graduating even though most of his family expected him to drop out.
Alex seemed to know most of the kids at the event and they him. Many of them came over to him during our letter writing to see what he was doing, as if they wanted to always know what he was doing. He’d joke with them, say something nice and then return to the letters. His demeanor with the staff and other kids pegged him as a regular at the center and one that seemed to value the people and life inside the florescent-lit building. He wore silver glass and facial hair that disrupted my guess at his age (over 18).
Having worked at a pool that was a refuge for children in troubled homes and a domestic abuse shelter, I’ve met kids like Alex before and easily assembled likely stories of his background. I wanted to know everything I could about Alex, but not wanting to scare him, I held off on the usual impromptu interview I cast on someone I think is interesting. So we kept writing and offering small interjections to each other between passages.
Daniel, one of the event’s organizers, joined our letter writing and informed me that Alex was quite the writer, and he promptly confirmed. “I can write a 15 page essay in 15 minutes.” He told me that he loved writing poetry and wanted to study some type of writing in college. I told him that I was also a writer, but a journalist and he should consider that field of study. Since we were in the letter-writing mood, he told me to write him a letter about journalism. Happily, I obliged.
Journalism, especially print, doesn’t have a great reputation these days, but I drew from all of my positive experiences to explain to Alex why a career in journalism is very gratifying and satisfying. I explained to him all the amazing things I’ve experienced through journalism: interviewing an NFL player a week before he won his team a Super Bowl; partaking in a buffalo hunt; learning to ski; covering one of the state’s most heated issues; helping create change; and meeting hundreds of fascinating, passionate people. I tried to forget about the profession’s downfalls and cynicism and relay why it’s truly an amazing career.
When I gave him the letter, he said thank you and that I’ve convinced him to consider journalism. That gave me the hope I so desperately needed. He inspired me to keep going, to keep swinging on the tough days.
I saw Alex again last night at another event. He brought his poems, hoping I would be there so he could share them with me. They were printed in various fonts on several sheets of white printer paper and stored on the right side of a blue binder covered in stickers. He handed the entire stack to me and I read through each one, struggling to keep back the tears. Most very short, the poems portrayed hope, disappointment, loneliness, devastation, anger, love, a cruel world and a beautiful world. A few of the sheets were marked with a pink ‘x’ in the left hand cover, which tagged the ones specific to Alex’s life, he explained.
Although not entirely elegant, these poems did the one thing poetry, or any good writing for that matter, should: evoke emotion. In eight or 10 lines, I saw a boy who’s lived a hard life but isn’t scarred from the unfairness. Despite letdowns, optimism reigns and the fire from his dreams and passion for writing can’t be extinguished.
Despite my best efforts, tears came. His poetry moved me, inspired me and, of course, instilled hope.
While I was reading his poetry, Alex made me a Valentine. In the Valentine to someone who he’s only met twice, he wrote “Thanks for inspiring me to do what I love the most.” He also showed me that on the left side of his binder, the one in which he kept his writing, was the letter I wrote him. He keeps it there and reads it often.
As he was telling me about the letter, I sent up a quick prayer, asking that Alex get everything that he wants and is entitled to in life. I’d make a deal with Devil to ensure success in his life; I want his hope to mean something more than I want my own hope to materialize.
Without even knowing him, Alex was the reason that I could pick myself off the floor that Friday evening and keep pushing through until all our issues were solved. When my days are hard, I think of Alex and his passion and I keep going. Alex is one of the many reasons I do what I do, and if I never see him again, I’ll continually think of him during the rough patches.
The kind of passion and hope Alex posses isn’t something you learn, it’s part of your DNA. It’s his burden and blessing. And it’s something the two of us will share till our deathbeds.
*For the purpose of this blog, Alex is a pseudo name.
Love, love
I love:
- street lights at night.
- tea.
- discussing colors in CMYK values.
- a well-written lede that corresponds with a well-written ending.
- the rain.
- This American Life (and Ira Glass).
- naps.
- Bon Iver.
- lunch dates.
- vegetarian friends.
- giggling.
- the Ponty.
- my bed.
- long phone conversations.
- the restlessness that keeps me up at night.
- Sunday mornings with eggs, coffee and the New Yorker.
- the sun, the moon, the stars, the clouds, the mountains, the oceans, the trees, the dirt.
- thrift stores.
- Couchsurfers.
- Couchsurfers.
- the itch of wanting, needing to write.
- song recommendations.
- song recommendations.
- the peace and joy of strangers.
- both of my jobs.
- my studio apartment.
- both of my jobs.
- my studio apartment.
- passionate people.
- day dreaming.
- The PostSD.
- my gorgeous, sweet, caring, funny, sincere friends that keep me going every day.
- Tony, Shiela, Christopher and Jason.
- day dreaming.
- The PostSD.
- my gorgeous, sweet, caring, funny, sincere friends that keep me going every day.
- Tony, Shiela, Christopher and Jason.
- Heather.
Happy Valentine's Day.
Saturday, February 06, 2010
The girl at the bar, part II
It was 7:30 p.m. on a Friday and my journal wanted to chat.
Driving down 12th Street, I scanned both sides of the road looking for a place to stop and spill out all of the emotion that had built up throughout the day. I was supposed to go to a friend's house, but the urge to journal would stall that plan. I woke up with the notion that I would make the time to write, but at this point, it was a necessity in order to enjoy the rest of the evening.
My plan was to stop at a coffee shop that was along the route between his place and mine, but it was closed. Maybe I'll just write later, I thought as I drove past the dark establishment, but something told me to look for something else. A Vietnamese restaurant, The Frying Pan and a slew of financial business didn't fit the bill and I thought maybe 10 minutes in a parking lot with my music blaring could put my soul at ease.
I pulled off into a K-Mart and notice a bar sign in a near strip mall. "You don't know this part of town, Heather. You should probably just go with the car idea," my reasonable side suggested. Still, it's February in South Dakota and I decided to at least check it out.
In a semi-creepy fashion, I walked up to the door and gage the crowd from the colder side of the glass door. A nice sized group for the hour. It's just one beer and my friends were close by and my journal would not quit begging for attention. It would be OK, I assured myself as I went in and found a place at the bar without looking at anyone but the bartender.
A man in his late 20s with gapped teeth and a receding hairline was taking drink orders from three guys at the end of the bar. They seemed the closest to my age in the bar as I took a quick glance around the room, also realizing I was the only female in the establishment. I opened my journal but waited to start the furious pen scratching until my drink order was fulfilled. I order one before the bartender told me they didn't have the capability to take credit cards (I rarely carry cash with me) because the phone lines were down. There is an ATM next door, one of the three guys at the end of the bar offered. I hopped down from my chair when another of the three offered to buy my drink.
Not sure how to respond - I am not the girl who receives drinks from random men in bars - I said thank you a few times and gave him a sincere smile. Once the drink was in my possession, I started writing. Feelings of loneliness and unfairness filled the first pages and my heart immediately felt better. I didn't look up until another guy, who was ordering a drink, interjected.
"So, are you writing a review about this place?"
Awkwardly laughing, I said "Oh, did it just open?" It must be a few months old, I thought.
"Yeah, like three weeks ago."
The reporter in me had to know more so I waited until the bartender was free to quiz him about it. He said the pool hall next door opened a few weeks earlier, but the bar - the one I randomly stumbled upon - was celebrating its first night of business. The owner was from Iowa and most of the people in the bar had traveled to Sioux Falls for the occasion. I am pretty sure nobody in the bar, except the bartender and maybe on of the three guys at the bar, actually lived in Sioux Falls. The odds made me giggle and Twitter about the experience. And then journal.
A few minutes later, another man started asking me questions.
"What are you writing about over there?" said the obviously drunk 20-something.
"Oh, just my life and being in this bar."
"I bet you are going to turn that into a song. You look like a songwriter."
He wouldn't accept the idea that I wasn't a songwriter so I let him believe it. He then asked me about Sioux Falls and the hot places to be (earlier, I heard him ask the bartender about the best places to "find tail." "They don't need to be good looking.") and I threw out a few places that I thought a guy like him would enjoy, or places that I despise. He then offered to show off his handwriting so I gave him a page in my journal to write a note and he neatly printed "It was lovely to meet you." Before returning to his friends, he said "Don't take this the wrong way but you must be pretty independent."
"Well, I am sitting at bar by myself and journaling." He wasn't sure how to respond and forced out a chuckled as he turned around.
I wrote about the exchange in my journal and a whole new flood of emotions came out. Something big could happen in my life in the next few months and its possibility has brought dreams filled with anxiety and nerves. But at that moment, a stranger calling me independent, I felt confident that I could do it. I could handle my world being flipped upside down and all that is comfortable vanishing. This excursion to an unknown bar reminded me I had it in me.
My journal often works like that. I assume the urge to write comes from an issue on the surface, but it's always more than that. It wants to show me a part of myself that I am usually too busy to look at it. And sometimes it screams at me until I sit down by myself in a random bar.
I went into the bar needing to be reassured that I am a wonderful person and I left reassured.
Driving down 12th Street, I scanned both sides of the road looking for a place to stop and spill out all of the emotion that had built up throughout the day. I was supposed to go to a friend's house, but the urge to journal would stall that plan. I woke up with the notion that I would make the time to write, but at this point, it was a necessity in order to enjoy the rest of the evening.
My plan was to stop at a coffee shop that was along the route between his place and mine, but it was closed. Maybe I'll just write later, I thought as I drove past the dark establishment, but something told me to look for something else. A Vietnamese restaurant, The Frying Pan and a slew of financial business didn't fit the bill and I thought maybe 10 minutes in a parking lot with my music blaring could put my soul at ease.
I pulled off into a K-Mart and notice a bar sign in a near strip mall. "You don't know this part of town, Heather. You should probably just go with the car idea," my reasonable side suggested. Still, it's February in South Dakota and I decided to at least check it out.
In a semi-creepy fashion, I walked up to the door and gage the crowd from the colder side of the glass door. A nice sized group for the hour. It's just one beer and my friends were close by and my journal would not quit begging for attention. It would be OK, I assured myself as I went in and found a place at the bar without looking at anyone but the bartender.
A man in his late 20s with gapped teeth and a receding hairline was taking drink orders from three guys at the end of the bar. They seemed the closest to my age in the bar as I took a quick glance around the room, also realizing I was the only female in the establishment. I opened my journal but waited to start the furious pen scratching until my drink order was fulfilled. I order one before the bartender told me they didn't have the capability to take credit cards (I rarely carry cash with me) because the phone lines were down. There is an ATM next door, one of the three guys at the end of the bar offered. I hopped down from my chair when another of the three offered to buy my drink.
Not sure how to respond - I am not the girl who receives drinks from random men in bars - I said thank you a few times and gave him a sincere smile. Once the drink was in my possession, I started writing. Feelings of loneliness and unfairness filled the first pages and my heart immediately felt better. I didn't look up until another guy, who was ordering a drink, interjected.
"So, are you writing a review about this place?"
Awkwardly laughing, I said "Oh, did it just open?" It must be a few months old, I thought.
"Yeah, like three weeks ago."
The reporter in me had to know more so I waited until the bartender was free to quiz him about it. He said the pool hall next door opened a few weeks earlier, but the bar - the one I randomly stumbled upon - was celebrating its first night of business. The owner was from Iowa and most of the people in the bar had traveled to Sioux Falls for the occasion. I am pretty sure nobody in the bar, except the bartender and maybe on of the three guys at the bar, actually lived in Sioux Falls. The odds made me giggle and Twitter about the experience. And then journal.
A few minutes later, another man started asking me questions.
"What are you writing about over there?" said the obviously drunk 20-something.
"Oh, just my life and being in this bar."
"I bet you are going to turn that into a song. You look like a songwriter."
He wouldn't accept the idea that I wasn't a songwriter so I let him believe it. He then asked me about Sioux Falls and the hot places to be (earlier, I heard him ask the bartender about the best places to "find tail." "They don't need to be good looking.") and I threw out a few places that I thought a guy like him would enjoy, or places that I despise. He then offered to show off his handwriting so I gave him a page in my journal to write a note and he neatly printed "It was lovely to meet you." Before returning to his friends, he said "Don't take this the wrong way but you must be pretty independent."
"Well, I am sitting at bar by myself and journaling." He wasn't sure how to respond and forced out a chuckled as he turned around.
I wrote about the exchange in my journal and a whole new flood of emotions came out. Something big could happen in my life in the next few months and its possibility has brought dreams filled with anxiety and nerves. But at that moment, a stranger calling me independent, I felt confident that I could do it. I could handle my world being flipped upside down and all that is comfortable vanishing. This excursion to an unknown bar reminded me I had it in me.
My journal often works like that. I assume the urge to write comes from an issue on the surface, but it's always more than that. It wants to show me a part of myself that I am usually too busy to look at it. And sometimes it screams at me until I sit down by myself in a random bar.
I went into the bar needing to be reassured that I am a wonderful person and I left reassured.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
White oblivion
For the past few days, a deep fog has settled in on the east side of the state. Although it leaves trees and light poles with a sparkling white frost, it's a nightmare to drive though, especially when my commuting hours are very early and very late.
Most times, I try to stay in a pack so that a string of red taillights can lead me along I-29. This morning, traffic was light was I was my own guiding light. Visibility was low, only about a quarter of a mile most of the way. All I could count on was that my wheels were straight and the lines of the road would always tell me the direction to go.
The white fog that blocked everything in front of me frightened me. I don't like not knowing where I am going, especially when all that is up head is a cloudy haze. What if something just appeared in the road? Would I be able to avoid it? What if I missed my exit? What if I never see the road ahead again?
As I was trying my best to stay calm, I noticed the metaphor—the road my car was on and the one my life is on were similar. I am not always going to know what's ahead or have someone to follow, and I shouldn't. Sometimes, I got to just bowl right through the fog and pretend to not be afraid. If something appears, I've got to have faith that it won't kill me, even if it might it. I just need to keep driving.
I made it to my destination with no problems. On the actual road or the road of my life, I have to have faith that that will always happen, even if it doesn't. Because having faith is a better way to drive than worrying constantly.
Most times, I try to stay in a pack so that a string of red taillights can lead me along I-29. This morning, traffic was light was I was my own guiding light. Visibility was low, only about a quarter of a mile most of the way. All I could count on was that my wheels were straight and the lines of the road would always tell me the direction to go.
The white fog that blocked everything in front of me frightened me. I don't like not knowing where I am going, especially when all that is up head is a cloudy haze. What if something just appeared in the road? Would I be able to avoid it? What if I missed my exit? What if I never see the road ahead again?
As I was trying my best to stay calm, I noticed the metaphor—the road my car was on and the one my life is on were similar. I am not always going to know what's ahead or have someone to follow, and I shouldn't. Sometimes, I got to just bowl right through the fog and pretend to not be afraid. If something appears, I've got to have faith that it won't kill me, even if it might it. I just need to keep driving.
I made it to my destination with no problems. On the actual road or the road of my life, I have to have faith that that will always happen, even if it doesn't. Because having faith is a better way to drive than worrying constantly.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
A new life
I was sunglasses shopping when I got the phone call.
There was a pair of brown-tint, gold-rimmed sunglasses that I passed by a couple days prior and I couldn't stop thinking about them. I ran to the store to get something else and decided that particular night was the one in which I would fork over the $10 for the eye wear.
My heart was set on that particular pair, but I teased myself a bit and tried on a few others, just to make sure I was fully committed to the brown ones. As I was making the poses you make when trying on sunglasses in front of the thin sunglasses mirror, my phone rang. It was a dear friend of mine that lived in a different state. I knew exactly what she was going to tell me before I answered.
She set off on a story about her car dying. She had gone to the store late at night for one specific item and her car broke down on her way home. After the tow truck picked up her car and she got home, she took out the item to answer a question that had been stalled with her car problems but on her mind the weekend before when we attended a concert together. She was pregnant and the late night run to the store was for pregnancy test. My unmarried, boyfriendless friend was pregnant.
The night of of pregnancy test and car failures changed her life. Being pregnant affected every aspect of her life and meant big decisions and questions in the next eight months.
When she told me she was pregnant this past May, my life was on the verge of changing, but in a completely different way. Over the past few months, she has adapted to the idea of being a mom, still very unaware of what that title meant. Me, I grew into my new life, chasing dreams faster and harder than I anticipated. Like me, this isn't how she expected her life to play out. This isn't how she imagined her story going.
But she went with it, jumping hurdle after hurdle. Putting up with judging stares and condemning remarks, as she planned for the arrival of a dependent. In my world, I faced obstacles and doubts from strangers and friends alike who only casually understood this dream. Never once did we believe our journeys were easy, but we gave into the idea it would all pay off.
I had lunch with her a couple of weeks ago, very close to her due date. I asked her if she was ready, later realizing that was a ridiculous question to ask. You can't be entirely ready for that change. She handled each moment with stride, knowing this phase was about to end and another, longer one was about to start. We both seemed tired from our lives, but had no choice to keep pressing on, so we do.
Today, my friend's life changed again. She gave birth to a little boy, a gorgeous little boy. Everything she thought about the world changed today.
My life changes aren't nearly as great or poetic as becoming a mother, but they are what I can handle right now. I admire my friend so much and have no doubt that she is going to be an amazing mother. She was destined to be a mother. I am still in my pregnancy stage, harboring a life that is yet to emerge into this world. It'll come when the time is right. For my friend, even though it's not how or when she planned, Jan. 10, 2010 was the day she was meant to become a mother. Her new life begins with this new life.
There was a pair of brown-tint, gold-rimmed sunglasses that I passed by a couple days prior and I couldn't stop thinking about them. I ran to the store to get something else and decided that particular night was the one in which I would fork over the $10 for the eye wear.
My heart was set on that particular pair, but I teased myself a bit and tried on a few others, just to make sure I was fully committed to the brown ones. As I was making the poses you make when trying on sunglasses in front of the thin sunglasses mirror, my phone rang. It was a dear friend of mine that lived in a different state. I knew exactly what she was going to tell me before I answered.
She set off on a story about her car dying. She had gone to the store late at night for one specific item and her car broke down on her way home. After the tow truck picked up her car and she got home, she took out the item to answer a question that had been stalled with her car problems but on her mind the weekend before when we attended a concert together. She was pregnant and the late night run to the store was for pregnancy test. My unmarried, boyfriendless friend was pregnant.
The night of of pregnancy test and car failures changed her life. Being pregnant affected every aspect of her life and meant big decisions and questions in the next eight months.
When she told me she was pregnant this past May, my life was on the verge of changing, but in a completely different way. Over the past few months, she has adapted to the idea of being a mom, still very unaware of what that title meant. Me, I grew into my new life, chasing dreams faster and harder than I anticipated. Like me, this isn't how she expected her life to play out. This isn't how she imagined her story going.
But she went with it, jumping hurdle after hurdle. Putting up with judging stares and condemning remarks, as she planned for the arrival of a dependent. In my world, I faced obstacles and doubts from strangers and friends alike who only casually understood this dream. Never once did we believe our journeys were easy, but we gave into the idea it would all pay off.
I had lunch with her a couple of weeks ago, very close to her due date. I asked her if she was ready, later realizing that was a ridiculous question to ask. You can't be entirely ready for that change. She handled each moment with stride, knowing this phase was about to end and another, longer one was about to start. We both seemed tired from our lives, but had no choice to keep pressing on, so we do.
Today, my friend's life changed again. She gave birth to a little boy, a gorgeous little boy. Everything she thought about the world changed today.
My life changes aren't nearly as great or poetic as becoming a mother, but they are what I can handle right now. I admire my friend so much and have no doubt that she is going to be an amazing mother. She was destined to be a mother. I am still in my pregnancy stage, harboring a life that is yet to emerge into this world. It'll come when the time is right. For my friend, even though it's not how or when she planned, Jan. 10, 2010 was the day she was meant to become a mother. Her new life begins with this new life.
Sunday, January 03, 2010
My demon
Pppattthhh
My mind was racing, reviewing the conversation and unsystematic group—a mix of strangers, dear friends and people specifically brought into my life for a reason—which I stepped away from for a moment to use the restroom. Initially, I was nervous about this gathering, but all the players seem to mesh well and the flow of interaction was pleasant, even exciting. As I resided in the failed expectation of awkwardness, my thoughts halted at the noise.
Pppattthhh
It’s impolite to acknowledge the sounds others make in a bathroom, but this is a familiar noise, one that only those who’ve made it understand what it means as if it’s badge of secret club. Whatever was happening back at my table seemed distant and irrelevant to what was happening in the stall next to mine. The next sound was exactly what I expected—silence.
I flushed the toilet, exited the stall and washed my hands. Still, no noise from the only other person in the bathroom. I’d been her before and I was silent in those moments too. I could saying something, offer a piece of support, such as “It’s OK, I understand” or “You don’t have to.” I didn’t. Instead, I left, knowing that is what she wanted from me because I would’ve wanted the same thing from her if our roles were reversed. All she wanted at this point was to hear the sound of the door close as I left her nightmare.
Before I returned to my table, I looked. I always wondered if other peopled looked at me, trying to confirm their suspicions before returning to their neat life. Not wanting her to know that I was seeking her devil out, I quickly glanced under the door to check her feet. Sure enough, I saw her heals, meaning that her toes, her stomach, her face were directed toward the toilet.
Leaving, I shut the door harder than I needed to. I wanted her to know I was gone, for she was now alone to continue her battle. Stopping her or saying something would’ve added to the pain she was already enduring. She was the only who could stop herself.
As I returned to the table, images of bathroom stalls reminded me of what I’d overcome. My addiction could control me at any moment anywhere: home, school, work, restaurants, bars, little league fields, rest stops along the highway. It tortured me with the idea that an empty stomach meant I was more significant to the world.
Many, many times I fell into this twisted logic while eroding my teeth, killing my metabolism and endangering my esophagus and heart. Hours and hours of counseling, threats of hospitalization and several prescriptions could do nothing to beat this monster. Sometimes, it would subdue for weeks or months, but stress, frustration or a difficult relationship would invite it to roar again.
The last time this demon visited was in the summer of 2008. It tugged and teased my insecurities and exposed faults until I gave into its demands. The entire summer, I watched every morsel that I consumed, and if it more than the restrictions I set, it would go back up. I knew it was wrong and I knew that I should quit, but I didn’t want to. Only if I could lose just a few more pounds, then I would quit. I was in control and I could quit when I wanted to.
But I couldn’t.
The breaking came after a party with friends. We dined on wine and pizza, but the enjoyment of the occasion couldn’t suppress the voice in my head. “You need to get rid of it.” With too many people in my apartment, I said that I needed some fresh air. I went to the alley to reveal myself of this pain, of this food. Someone, who knew my history with this disease, caught me. I stopped, pretended nothing happened and rejoined the festivities.
The next day, she confronted me. She told me that I needed to go back to counseling and to realize that this will always be a part of who I am. I refused to believe that. I was more than a person with an eating disorder.
That was the last time I purged, and actually had craving to do so. I’m not sure what snapped inside of me, but something did. I said goodbye to the demon and haven’t looked back.
It’s been over a year and half since my last purge, and I feel victorious. Not because of the time that has lapsed, but because of the change in my attitude. I no longer use food and purging as a coping mechanism, although I’m the most stressed I’ve ever been. Snug jeans or tight shirts don’t send me into a fit of crying and despair anymore. A few gained pounds aren’t the end of the world and I don’t lecture myself after a bit too much to eat. When I finally wanted to quit, I did.
It was at the end of my uncle’s life, as his demon was empowering, that I realized what it meant for me to finally let go of my disease. It meant having back a piece of my life and living with a ray of hope, a ray of strength.
I felt sorry for the woman in the stall, but I said a silent prayer for her, hoping one day she would wake up with the honest will to change. I sat down at my table and scarffed another piece of pizza without regret. Maybe I’m too optimistic, but I have faith in her. I have hope that someday she’ll rid herself of this demon. For my demon is buried and it will forever stay that way.
My mind was racing, reviewing the conversation and unsystematic group—a mix of strangers, dear friends and people specifically brought into my life for a reason—which I stepped away from for a moment to use the restroom. Initially, I was nervous about this gathering, but all the players seem to mesh well and the flow of interaction was pleasant, even exciting. As I resided in the failed expectation of awkwardness, my thoughts halted at the noise.
Pppattthhh
It’s impolite to acknowledge the sounds others make in a bathroom, but this is a familiar noise, one that only those who’ve made it understand what it means as if it’s badge of secret club. Whatever was happening back at my table seemed distant and irrelevant to what was happening in the stall next to mine. The next sound was exactly what I expected—silence.
I flushed the toilet, exited the stall and washed my hands. Still, no noise from the only other person in the bathroom. I’d been her before and I was silent in those moments too. I could saying something, offer a piece of support, such as “It’s OK, I understand” or “You don’t have to.” I didn’t. Instead, I left, knowing that is what she wanted from me because I would’ve wanted the same thing from her if our roles were reversed. All she wanted at this point was to hear the sound of the door close as I left her nightmare.
Before I returned to my table, I looked. I always wondered if other peopled looked at me, trying to confirm their suspicions before returning to their neat life. Not wanting her to know that I was seeking her devil out, I quickly glanced under the door to check her feet. Sure enough, I saw her heals, meaning that her toes, her stomach, her face were directed toward the toilet.
Leaving, I shut the door harder than I needed to. I wanted her to know I was gone, for she was now alone to continue her battle. Stopping her or saying something would’ve added to the pain she was already enduring. She was the only who could stop herself.
As I returned to the table, images of bathroom stalls reminded me of what I’d overcome. My addiction could control me at any moment anywhere: home, school, work, restaurants, bars, little league fields, rest stops along the highway. It tortured me with the idea that an empty stomach meant I was more significant to the world.
Many, many times I fell into this twisted logic while eroding my teeth, killing my metabolism and endangering my esophagus and heart. Hours and hours of counseling, threats of hospitalization and several prescriptions could do nothing to beat this monster. Sometimes, it would subdue for weeks or months, but stress, frustration or a difficult relationship would invite it to roar again.
The last time this demon visited was in the summer of 2008. It tugged and teased my insecurities and exposed faults until I gave into its demands. The entire summer, I watched every morsel that I consumed, and if it more than the restrictions I set, it would go back up. I knew it was wrong and I knew that I should quit, but I didn’t want to. Only if I could lose just a few more pounds, then I would quit. I was in control and I could quit when I wanted to.
But I couldn’t.
The breaking came after a party with friends. We dined on wine and pizza, but the enjoyment of the occasion couldn’t suppress the voice in my head. “You need to get rid of it.” With too many people in my apartment, I said that I needed some fresh air. I went to the alley to reveal myself of this pain, of this food. Someone, who knew my history with this disease, caught me. I stopped, pretended nothing happened and rejoined the festivities.
The next day, she confronted me. She told me that I needed to go back to counseling and to realize that this will always be a part of who I am. I refused to believe that. I was more than a person with an eating disorder.
That was the last time I purged, and actually had craving to do so. I’m not sure what snapped inside of me, but something did. I said goodbye to the demon and haven’t looked back.
It’s been over a year and half since my last purge, and I feel victorious. Not because of the time that has lapsed, but because of the change in my attitude. I no longer use food and purging as a coping mechanism, although I’m the most stressed I’ve ever been. Snug jeans or tight shirts don’t send me into a fit of crying and despair anymore. A few gained pounds aren’t the end of the world and I don’t lecture myself after a bit too much to eat. When I finally wanted to quit, I did.
It was at the end of my uncle’s life, as his demon was empowering, that I realized what it meant for me to finally let go of my disease. It meant having back a piece of my life and living with a ray of hope, a ray of strength.
I felt sorry for the woman in the stall, but I said a silent prayer for her, hoping one day she would wake up with the honest will to change. I sat down at my table and scarffed another piece of pizza without regret. Maybe I’m too optimistic, but I have faith in her. I have hope that someday she’ll rid herself of this demon. For my demon is buried and it will forever stay that way.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
So long, 2009
“Sometimes you need to go back to where you started to be where you need to be.”
That was an inscription on a gift that my boss gave me for Christmas. She had passed by this particular item several times – it always reminding her of me – but never purchased it because she wasn’t sure how I would react to it. She understood and knew well of my internal struggle with moving back, but decided that maybe I was at place in my life where I could agree with that statement.
I am.
Nearly two years have passed since I made the decision to come back, and I constantly realize why. It hit me many times in 2009, and I have no doubt that I am where I am supposed to be. I’m not always happy about it, but this is right. I’m in the right place.
Looking back over the past year, I can’t exactly say 2009 was a good year. Going into this year, I was so confident in myself and who I was becoming, yet the last 12 months have felt like back peddling – going, but never really getting anywhere. All the progress I made in personal growth seemed to be tested and unraveled and I feel that I have no strong understanding of who I truly am now. I’m sure that isn’t an entirely bad thing, but I have yet to see the good from it.
This year has been a struggle and I’ve fallen into overwhelming pits of frustration and confusion. From deaths to betrayal to “you won’t make it” to restlessness so deep my legs shake, times of clarity rarely appeared. And on certain days, grasping for air is all that I could do to completely losing.
Still, on the day before Jan. 1, resolution is in my heart. Maybe it’s the optimism that a new year brings or the ability to finally be OK with certain situations, but I feel calm right now. Like a rainbow after a heavy thunderstorm, all I can do is smile at what passed and the sunshine to come. There is no anxiety, remorse or regret flooding my veins, only reassurance that all of the events played out the way they needed to.
And not all of the year was bad. My big resolution of the year was to take risks and I think did that. I’m following a dream, one that many said couldn’t survive. It’s too early to say “I told you so,” but I took a leap that many only talk about. It’s a battle each day, but one I love. I could never regret the decision to pursue this endeavor, even if it would flop tomorrow.
I also moved to another city, a hope for 2009. Again, it’s not the settling-down point, but I much happier here. The air just feels fresher 50 miles south.
Each time I met despair this year my army of overwhelming supportive friends was there to hold up my back. They held me as I cried, offered encouraging statements and put time and energy into my dream without hesitation. In a way, I’m really thankful for the people who hurt me, because it only made those that love me shine brighter. More than at anytime in my life, I learned the difference between a good friend and a bad one.
Tomorrow, 2010 begins. I’m still restless, but good things are going to come. And no matter where I am Dec. 31, 2010, I will appreciate how the year began.
That was an inscription on a gift that my boss gave me for Christmas. She had passed by this particular item several times – it always reminding her of me – but never purchased it because she wasn’t sure how I would react to it. She understood and knew well of my internal struggle with moving back, but decided that maybe I was at place in my life where I could agree with that statement.
I am.
Nearly two years have passed since I made the decision to come back, and I constantly realize why. It hit me many times in 2009, and I have no doubt that I am where I am supposed to be. I’m not always happy about it, but this is right. I’m in the right place.
Looking back over the past year, I can’t exactly say 2009 was a good year. Going into this year, I was so confident in myself and who I was becoming, yet the last 12 months have felt like back peddling – going, but never really getting anywhere. All the progress I made in personal growth seemed to be tested and unraveled and I feel that I have no strong understanding of who I truly am now. I’m sure that isn’t an entirely bad thing, but I have yet to see the good from it.
This year has been a struggle and I’ve fallen into overwhelming pits of frustration and confusion. From deaths to betrayal to “you won’t make it” to restlessness so deep my legs shake, times of clarity rarely appeared. And on certain days, grasping for air is all that I could do to completely losing.
Still, on the day before Jan. 1, resolution is in my heart. Maybe it’s the optimism that a new year brings or the ability to finally be OK with certain situations, but I feel calm right now. Like a rainbow after a heavy thunderstorm, all I can do is smile at what passed and the sunshine to come. There is no anxiety, remorse or regret flooding my veins, only reassurance that all of the events played out the way they needed to.
And not all of the year was bad. My big resolution of the year was to take risks and I think did that. I’m following a dream, one that many said couldn’t survive. It’s too early to say “I told you so,” but I took a leap that many only talk about. It’s a battle each day, but one I love. I could never regret the decision to pursue this endeavor, even if it would flop tomorrow.
I also moved to another city, a hope for 2009. Again, it’s not the settling-down point, but I much happier here. The air just feels fresher 50 miles south.
Each time I met despair this year my army of overwhelming supportive friends was there to hold up my back. They held me as I cried, offered encouraging statements and put time and energy into my dream without hesitation. In a way, I’m really thankful for the people who hurt me, because it only made those that love me shine brighter. More than at anytime in my life, I learned the difference between a good friend and a bad one.
Tomorrow, 2010 begins. I’m still restless, but good things are going to come. And no matter where I am Dec. 31, 2010, I will appreciate how the year began.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
A merry day
One of my beloved, but not very original, Christmas traditions is to watch "It's a Wonderful Life" on Christmas eve. After mass and before some gift opening, my mother and I—dad joins in for the last half hour—watch the tale of George Bailey. Each time I watch it, I'm moved with hope and spirit as if it was my first introduction to the people of Bedford Falls. And each year, I find a new way to identify to the film that I've loved for years.
In the last two years, I discovered similarities between George Bailey and myself. We were both bright-eyed kids, with dreams as big as our imaginations. We want to kick the dust of this crummy town and leave footsteps in exotic places. Yet, life happens and dreams morphed into other things. Adventures are swapped with what seems right and we only know work with one adverb: hard.
My brothers hate this movie so it's an argument every year when I demand to watch the film. There is usually a screaming match and I often get my way. This year, I decided to compromise. I watched all but the last half hour of the movie before mass, saving George Bailey's realization of his wonderful life for the evening when the snow was falling and the fire cracking.
As I watch the first half, I saw those similarities again and fell into a slump of frustration and discontent. My life wasn't nearly as glamorous as I had anticipated it would be at the age of 25 and I can't say that any grand adventures await me in the near future. I felt stuck and like a disappointment to all those “I am going to”s.
At Christmas Eve mass, my mind mulled over where I am and where I could be. There are many parts of 2009 that I’m proud of, but I tend to focus on what I don’t have during the holiday season. I’m not somewhere special, doing something magnificent, or so I lecture myself instead of listening to the first and second readings.
The pastor moves into the homily as he talks about hope and the potential for great possibilities that are often represented in the holiday season. At that point, I saw Christmas as a transition point, one where we forget about what happened in the year past and focus on the journey ahead. And then I start to rethink my mood. Maybe I can dwell into possibilities instead of missed opportunities. Maybe my life is pretty darn grand and there is so much to live that it’s a wasteful to start discounting dreams.
After mass and movies with my family, it was time for the last few minutes of “It’s a Wonderful Life.” As Clarence shows George how important he is to others, I remember that I might not be saving the world, but I play a significant role in this universe and nobody can replace me. And when all of his friends come to his side, I’m reminded of the great people in my life who’ve stood by me this past year, rooting me on in this challenge.
At the end of the movie, I’ve transitioned. No longer am I scolding myself, but I rejoicing in the good parts. I’ve got a lot to be thankful for and, blessedly so, a lot to look forward to. Similar to George Bailey, I too have a wonderful life.
Merry Christmas each and everyone.
In the last two years, I discovered similarities between George Bailey and myself. We were both bright-eyed kids, with dreams as big as our imaginations. We want to kick the dust of this crummy town and leave footsteps in exotic places. Yet, life happens and dreams morphed into other things. Adventures are swapped with what seems right and we only know work with one adverb: hard.
My brothers hate this movie so it's an argument every year when I demand to watch the film. There is usually a screaming match and I often get my way. This year, I decided to compromise. I watched all but the last half hour of the movie before mass, saving George Bailey's realization of his wonderful life for the evening when the snow was falling and the fire cracking.
As I watch the first half, I saw those similarities again and fell into a slump of frustration and discontent. My life wasn't nearly as glamorous as I had anticipated it would be at the age of 25 and I can't say that any grand adventures await me in the near future. I felt stuck and like a disappointment to all those “I am going to”s.
At Christmas Eve mass, my mind mulled over where I am and where I could be. There are many parts of 2009 that I’m proud of, but I tend to focus on what I don’t have during the holiday season. I’m not somewhere special, doing something magnificent, or so I lecture myself instead of listening to the first and second readings.
The pastor moves into the homily as he talks about hope and the potential for great possibilities that are often represented in the holiday season. At that point, I saw Christmas as a transition point, one where we forget about what happened in the year past and focus on the journey ahead. And then I start to rethink my mood. Maybe I can dwell into possibilities instead of missed opportunities. Maybe my life is pretty darn grand and there is so much to live that it’s a wasteful to start discounting dreams.
After mass and movies with my family, it was time for the last few minutes of “It’s a Wonderful Life.” As Clarence shows George how important he is to others, I remember that I might not be saving the world, but I play a significant role in this universe and nobody can replace me. And when all of his friends come to his side, I’m reminded of the great people in my life who’ve stood by me this past year, rooting me on in this challenge.
At the end of the movie, I’ve transitioned. No longer am I scolding myself, but I rejoicing in the good parts. I’ve got a lot to be thankful for and, blessedly so, a lot to look forward to. Similar to George Bailey, I too have a wonderful life.
Merry Christmas each and everyone.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
A traveling heart
“The road is my artery, travel is my friend.”
A friend sent that text message to me as he was driving across five states to be home for the holidays. The emotion that reeked from his words was familiar. It was one I knew and one I craved.
I have issues with traveling. It bugs me when people say, “Oh, I love to travel.” Yeah, well many people do; it’s not a unique concept, although the voice box would often like you to believe it is. And the “traveler” identification comes off pretentious and can make others feel so small if they don’t have the means to visit far and away places. It irritates me when people judge each other based on the number of countries they’ve visited.
Yet, behind the smug and commercial appearance of travel is something gorgeous. There is an addiction to not staying in one place and immersing oneself in something foreign. The idea that one can find a new location, just for a day, is so captivating that we spend great amounts of money for a day, a week, a month to go somewhere that isn’t home.
I’m by no means a world traveler or an experienced travel. I go when the opportunity rises and try to indulge where I can, whether it be Paris or Omaha, Neb. Yet, I felt traveling’s ambiance and often dream of vagabonding.
Sure, I dream about the cobblestone streets of Europe, the sparkling blue ocean of the Caribbean, the invigorating colors of Africa and the pretty languages of Asia, but most often, I dream about a stretch of warm, isolated highway.
Last summer, I drove 3,000 miles by myself to visit friends in mountainous states. I long to do that trip again. The hot July sun soaked through my open car window, reddening exposed skin, while my radio hummed with a book on tape or a song from my entire library. Scenery varied from desolate patches of dirt to winding roads along the mountainside to small towns, which I imagined were jammed pack with good stories. I cried. I laughed. I talked to myself. I worried. I angered. I hung out with myself for 12 hours west, 6 hours north and 15 hours east.
Seeing old friends and meeting new ones was the objective of that trip, but the unexpected highlight was the road time itself.
On that trip, I learned to appreciate me time and traveling solo. Somewhere along side a road in Montana, my devils came out and I lost a tough battle to an addiction. I decided who I was going to vote for in the next election and developed a fear of driving at night thanks to “In Cold Blood” on audio book. I made a decision about my future and forgave myself for a grudge that wouldn’t be quiet. I saw myself in way that I never had or never could.
Most of all, I felt free and hopeful. I felt like I could drive anywhere in the world, no matter the distance or ocean in between. That trip confirmed my idea of simplicity. Happiness, I decided, could be as easy as me, my car and full tank of gas.
To be with my friend, traveling, I don’t have to hope on plane, a train or a boat. I just need my car and my heart will be happy.
A friend sent that text message to me as he was driving across five states to be home for the holidays. The emotion that reeked from his words was familiar. It was one I knew and one I craved.
I have issues with traveling. It bugs me when people say, “Oh, I love to travel.” Yeah, well many people do; it’s not a unique concept, although the voice box would often like you to believe it is. And the “traveler” identification comes off pretentious and can make others feel so small if they don’t have the means to visit far and away places. It irritates me when people judge each other based on the number of countries they’ve visited.
Yet, behind the smug and commercial appearance of travel is something gorgeous. There is an addiction to not staying in one place and immersing oneself in something foreign. The idea that one can find a new location, just for a day, is so captivating that we spend great amounts of money for a day, a week, a month to go somewhere that isn’t home.
I’m by no means a world traveler or an experienced travel. I go when the opportunity rises and try to indulge where I can, whether it be Paris or Omaha, Neb. Yet, I felt traveling’s ambiance and often dream of vagabonding.
Sure, I dream about the cobblestone streets of Europe, the sparkling blue ocean of the Caribbean, the invigorating colors of Africa and the pretty languages of Asia, but most often, I dream about a stretch of warm, isolated highway.
Last summer, I drove 3,000 miles by myself to visit friends in mountainous states. I long to do that trip again. The hot July sun soaked through my open car window, reddening exposed skin, while my radio hummed with a book on tape or a song from my entire library. Scenery varied from desolate patches of dirt to winding roads along the mountainside to small towns, which I imagined were jammed pack with good stories. I cried. I laughed. I talked to myself. I worried. I angered. I hung out with myself for 12 hours west, 6 hours north and 15 hours east.
Seeing old friends and meeting new ones was the objective of that trip, but the unexpected highlight was the road time itself.
On that trip, I learned to appreciate me time and traveling solo. Somewhere along side a road in Montana, my devils came out and I lost a tough battle to an addiction. I decided who I was going to vote for in the next election and developed a fear of driving at night thanks to “In Cold Blood” on audio book. I made a decision about my future and forgave myself for a grudge that wouldn’t be quiet. I saw myself in way that I never had or never could.
Most of all, I felt free and hopeful. I felt like I could drive anywhere in the world, no matter the distance or ocean in between. That trip confirmed my idea of simplicity. Happiness, I decided, could be as easy as me, my car and full tank of gas.
To be with my friend, traveling, I don’t have to hope on plane, a train or a boat. I just need my car and my heart will be happy.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Being lost
It’s what you’re not looking for that you find.
Today, I was searching my car looking for a receipt in order to return something. As I was rummaging through my life, since that mostly takes place in my car these days, my temper rose. “You always lose things you need,” I scolded myself and kept digging into every cranny possible to find that small, white piece of paper. I decided to give up, when I saw something sticking out beneath the passenger seat.
“Holy crap,” I said out loud in my cold car. It wasn’t the receipt, but something else I misplaced. It was the key card to my office building, which I’ve been lacking for months. Without the key, I could only use the main entrance door that was open regular business hours. It became a nuisance, especially with my unusual hours, to plan any errands, food runs or trips to my car after 8 a.m. and before 5 p.m. I even went to the trouble of organizing my apartment and desk, hoping it was lost in the fray. Eventually, I gave up. I thought it was long gone, a driftee of my pocket or lost soul to the washing machine. But here it was, and the joy of finding it completely replaced my rush to find the receipt.
When I gave up looking for it, I found it. All I needed to do was stop looking for it.
Life is like that. It’s good to set goals and aspire to them, but what you are looking for can’t always be found. Sometimes, it has to be stumbled upon.
As one year ends and a new one begins, I think about things I’ve lost in the last 12 months. I let people take advantage of me and lost a piece of myself in the process. Some of the hard work I put into defining myself was cracked. And I am no closer to finding my life path than I was nine months ago.
Last week, I took an oath to pull back, to just let things be. I’ve given up searching, or frivolous searching, for that big thing that is supposed to settle my restlessness and hope to just live. I have an idea of what I want from life, but, for right now, I can’t find it. That’s OK, and I need to be OK with that being OK.
So, I’m done. I’m gonna stop looking, and hopefully, what I’ve been searching for will present itself to me in an usual way in an usual place. And if doesn’t? Then I was never meant to find it.
Today, I was searching my car looking for a receipt in order to return something. As I was rummaging through my life, since that mostly takes place in my car these days, my temper rose. “You always lose things you need,” I scolded myself and kept digging into every cranny possible to find that small, white piece of paper. I decided to give up, when I saw something sticking out beneath the passenger seat.
“Holy crap,” I said out loud in my cold car. It wasn’t the receipt, but something else I misplaced. It was the key card to my office building, which I’ve been lacking for months. Without the key, I could only use the main entrance door that was open regular business hours. It became a nuisance, especially with my unusual hours, to plan any errands, food runs or trips to my car after 8 a.m. and before 5 p.m. I even went to the trouble of organizing my apartment and desk, hoping it was lost in the fray. Eventually, I gave up. I thought it was long gone, a driftee of my pocket or lost soul to the washing machine. But here it was, and the joy of finding it completely replaced my rush to find the receipt.
When I gave up looking for it, I found it. All I needed to do was stop looking for it.
Life is like that. It’s good to set goals and aspire to them, but what you are looking for can’t always be found. Sometimes, it has to be stumbled upon.
As one year ends and a new one begins, I think about things I’ve lost in the last 12 months. I let people take advantage of me and lost a piece of myself in the process. Some of the hard work I put into defining myself was cracked. And I am no closer to finding my life path than I was nine months ago.
Last week, I took an oath to pull back, to just let things be. I’ve given up searching, or frivolous searching, for that big thing that is supposed to settle my restlessness and hope to just live. I have an idea of what I want from life, but, for right now, I can’t find it. That’s OK, and I need to be OK with that being OK.
So, I’m done. I’m gonna stop looking, and hopefully, what I’ve been searching for will present itself to me in an usual way in an usual place. And if doesn’t? Then I was never meant to find it.
Monday, December 07, 2009
Why I did it
Why I did it
I didn’t do it for The Post.
I didn’t do it for Palin fans.
I didn’t do it for Palin haters.
I didn’t do it to show off.
I didn’t do it to outdo other media.
I didn’t do it for money.
I didn’t do it because someone told me I had to.
I didn’t do it because it was easy.
I didn’t do it because I’d been craving a story like this.
I didn’t do it to draw attention to myself.
I didn’t do it to earn praise.
I didn’t do it because it was difficult.
I didn’t do it for anyone.
I did it because I needed to be reminded of why I am a journalist.
I did it to feel that euphoria pumping through my veins again.
I did it because I believe in what it meant.
I did it because dreams only take you so far.
I did it for journalism.
I did it to reacquaint myself with my skills.
I did it because I needed to be rewarded.
I did it because I needed to win one.
I did it as encouragement to keep fighting.
I did it for me.
13 hours. 12 degrees. 2,511 words. 1 night. All for me.
It.
I didn’t do it for The Post.
I didn’t do it for Palin fans.
I didn’t do it for Palin haters.
I didn’t do it to show off.
I didn’t do it to outdo other media.
I didn’t do it for money.
I didn’t do it because someone told me I had to.
I didn’t do it because it was easy.
I didn’t do it because I’d been craving a story like this.
I didn’t do it to draw attention to myself.
I didn’t do it to earn praise.
I didn’t do it because it was difficult.
I didn’t do it for anyone.
I did it because I needed to be reminded of why I am a journalist.
I did it to feel that euphoria pumping through my veins again.
I did it because I believe in what it meant.
I did it because dreams only take you so far.
I did it for journalism.
I did it to reacquaint myself with my skills.
I did it because I needed to be rewarded.
I did it because I needed to win one.
I did it as encouragement to keep fighting.
I did it for me.
13 hours. 12 degrees. 2,511 words. 1 night. All for me.
It.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Be thankful.
Thanksgiving has become a measuring station for me.
Surrounded by people from my past, I have this strong urge to prove myself and my position in life. Even if I don’t come home for the holiday, I envision classmates huddle up in a booth at Bob’s Lounge discussing their lives and depicting different people from our class as if we were baseball players and you can find all of our stats on 2 inches by 4 inches baseball card.
“Hmm, Heather Mangan. What is she up to these days?” they would say as gulping light beer and grazing over the bar’s distinctively delicious popcorn.
“Oh, she moved across the ocean and has this incredible job and gorgeous boyfriend,” one would inform the others, proud of their Facebook stalking capabilities.
“Gosh, her life sounds fantastic compared to our dull, married lives that are littered with children.”
Since none those facts are true about my life (at least not now) that conversation probably hasn’t happened. Nor do I believe that my classmates have any desire to actually know where my life has gone.
Still, the idea looms that somebody, maybe a former teacher or a friend of my parents, will ask me about my life. What can I tell them? And can I be proud of it?
Some years, my story is bright and I’m proud to tell it. Other years, I just prefer no one notices me. This year, it’s the former.
I’ve got a lot to be thankful in the year 2009. Each year, as I continue to evolve as a person so do my list of gratitude. New things appear and old things sudden become blessings while the important things last year prove to have never been important at all. To look at those lists is a great reflection and affirmation that maybe I can make it in this world.
These lists are also a good reminder in February 7 and July 23 and any other day of the year. Always be thankful. Always.
This year, here are things that I’m most thankful for:
Sunny days
The first time I hear a song and instantly know it will be a favorite
Writing words that give me goose bumps as they pour out of my fingers
Cheese and crackers conversation
Chaotic lifestyle that comes with dream chasing
Hearing someone’s life story
Four magical words uttered from a loved one’s mouth: “I believe in you.”
The soothing reassurance of tea
A well-written lede that comes with a corresponding ending
Creativity’s power and addiction
God-given optimism
The stupidity to chase a dream and not give up when the world says you should.
Passionate people, from farmers to engineers to artists
Not one, but two wonderful jobs
Anyone who is willing to read what I write
Two arms, two legs, eye sight, hearing, smell and functioning organs
The closest and most inspirational friends I may have ever had
Two, wonderful parents who still love each other after so many years
Two brothers who would break the world for me
A life. A very, very good life.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Two lives
There are two lives. For me, there is the one I dream about and the one I actually live.
In college, I fantasized about an adult life. Early mornings with a run, “TODAY” and a hearty organic breakfast. Nights would allow for sitcoms, the nightly news and books. Not textbooks, but real books. I would volunteer, paint and learn to play the guitar. I would become good at cooking and host excellent parties. Those dreams of this “normal life” got me through a life dominated by three jobs and schoolwork. All of it would pay off in this steady, but happy routine life, I continually told myself.
As a young reporter fresh out of college in a community hundreds of miles away from everything I knew, I tried to adapt these fantasies of what I thought life should be like. It didn’t work. Working 2 p.m. to midnight didn’t provide much of a stable or social life. Being a full-time reporter was also much harder than I anticipated. So, I abandoned the attempts at an ideal life to focus on my job. I still made some time to run, but all of my thoughts were focused on that next story. Or how maybe I couldn’t hack it as reporter and if I even wanted to.
When my expectations of life out of college weren’t met, I was eager to change that, even if it meant leaving journalism. I convinced myself that a life beyond the newsroom was more stable and healthier. Looking around at many of then-single coworkers, I decided that in order to have a family and life like my friends in regular jobs, I would need to leave the business. That’s not a sound judgment, but at the time, it made perfect sense to me.
So I left my job, journalism and my new city for a more comfortable career and town. Now in a regular 8-5 job, I could have this stable life that put me to sleep at night when thoughts of my actual life kept my mind turning. I ran in the morning, cooked myself eggs that I ate with Matt and Meredith. After work – at a job I thoroughly enjoy – I cooked dinner and jetted off to volunteer at my church or the local domestic abuse shelter. On some nights, I would enjoy drinks and conversation with friends or lock myself in my room with a movie or hours of writing. It was a simple, but enjoyable life.
Eventually, I became restless. I should’ve anticipated my boredom with steadiness, but I refused to believe that I had become unhappy in the life I desired for so long.
Maybe it was the town or being in a place for more than a year, but something had to change. I took up a new venture, one that soaked up every ounce of my free time. To make it work, I’d have to keep that steady job, but my activities outside of it would solely be dedicated to this one goal.
Early morning runs were replaced with precious moments of sleep to cover up late nights. Healthy, home-cooked dinners gave away to gas station conveniences and fast food. My beloved writing time diminished as to-do lists grew. And time to watch television or movies and read books evaporated and did the funds to do so.
I miss running every day. I miss volunteering. I miss watching TV and knowing what’s going on beyond my little world. But I love what I do.
I love it so much that I don’t mind the lifestyle that accommodates it. It’s not fun and I slightly envy my friends with regulated schedules, but I wouldn’t trade them.
Sometimes, I wonder if I’m addicted to the chaos of this busy life. It’s who I am because it belongs to this passion.
At just 25 years old, I have time to run that marathon, to maneuver a five-course meal and write that novel. But at no other time in my life will I be able to pursue this goal.
Maybe, I’ll never have the life of a Real Simple article, but I can accept that now. My current life forces me to sacrifice normal activities. But a stable life, for me, would be without passion. And that, I cannot live with.
In college, I fantasized about an adult life. Early mornings with a run, “TODAY” and a hearty organic breakfast. Nights would allow for sitcoms, the nightly news and books. Not textbooks, but real books. I would volunteer, paint and learn to play the guitar. I would become good at cooking and host excellent parties. Those dreams of this “normal life” got me through a life dominated by three jobs and schoolwork. All of it would pay off in this steady, but happy routine life, I continually told myself.
As a young reporter fresh out of college in a community hundreds of miles away from everything I knew, I tried to adapt these fantasies of what I thought life should be like. It didn’t work. Working 2 p.m. to midnight didn’t provide much of a stable or social life. Being a full-time reporter was also much harder than I anticipated. So, I abandoned the attempts at an ideal life to focus on my job. I still made some time to run, but all of my thoughts were focused on that next story. Or how maybe I couldn’t hack it as reporter and if I even wanted to.
When my expectations of life out of college weren’t met, I was eager to change that, even if it meant leaving journalism. I convinced myself that a life beyond the newsroom was more stable and healthier. Looking around at many of then-single coworkers, I decided that in order to have a family and life like my friends in regular jobs, I would need to leave the business. That’s not a sound judgment, but at the time, it made perfect sense to me.
So I left my job, journalism and my new city for a more comfortable career and town. Now in a regular 8-5 job, I could have this stable life that put me to sleep at night when thoughts of my actual life kept my mind turning. I ran in the morning, cooked myself eggs that I ate with Matt and Meredith. After work – at a job I thoroughly enjoy – I cooked dinner and jetted off to volunteer at my church or the local domestic abuse shelter. On some nights, I would enjoy drinks and conversation with friends or lock myself in my room with a movie or hours of writing. It was a simple, but enjoyable life.
Eventually, I became restless. I should’ve anticipated my boredom with steadiness, but I refused to believe that I had become unhappy in the life I desired for so long.
Maybe it was the town or being in a place for more than a year, but something had to change. I took up a new venture, one that soaked up every ounce of my free time. To make it work, I’d have to keep that steady job, but my activities outside of it would solely be dedicated to this one goal.
Early morning runs were replaced with precious moments of sleep to cover up late nights. Healthy, home-cooked dinners gave away to gas station conveniences and fast food. My beloved writing time diminished as to-do lists grew. And time to watch television or movies and read books evaporated and did the funds to do so.
I miss running every day. I miss volunteering. I miss watching TV and knowing what’s going on beyond my little world. But I love what I do.
I love it so much that I don’t mind the lifestyle that accommodates it. It’s not fun and I slightly envy my friends with regulated schedules, but I wouldn’t trade them.
Sometimes, I wonder if I’m addicted to the chaos of this busy life. It’s who I am because it belongs to this passion.
At just 25 years old, I have time to run that marathon, to maneuver a five-course meal and write that novel. But at no other time in my life will I be able to pursue this goal.
Maybe, I’ll never have the life of a Real Simple article, but I can accept that now. My current life forces me to sacrifice normal activities. But a stable life, for me, would be without passion. And that, I cannot live with.
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