In transition

My Prompt workshop ends this week, which makes me sad. I had a lot of fun meeting everybody in the group and listening to their (brilliant) writing. I won't say that participating in the workshop alleviated all of the trouble I've been having getting myself to sit down and write, but it did help me open up the way I write when I do. Also it got me involved with Write Around Portland which will be another interesting evolution come January. That's also when school starts again. Three classes this time, two online and one on campus. I haven't even let myself think about it much, since my brain has been so busy with everything else like moving. The big men with the truck are coming on the 30th to move me into the new house. I still haven't packed a box, though I have made many optimistic packing schedules.

I frequently find myself looking for a moment in which to rest and forget that all of this change is swirling around me. Thus far there are none to be found. Next week I'll get a respite from work when half of our team is sent on furlough to save the company money. I plan to use at least one of those days to do absolutely nothing but read a book, watch a movie or two, and vigorously deny to myself that anything is amiss.

Home again

We did see the inside, we did love it as much as we thought we would, but then we found out there were six other applications on the house already. We were tempted to just give up but decided to throw our hat in the ring anyway, just in case. We submitted our application and wrote a nice letter explaining to the landlords just how much we would love to be their tenants. We crossed our fingers. They chose someone else.

Luckily while we were waiting for them to decide we continued our search for perfect houses. We found one that came damn close two days later. Three bedrooms/one bath, a nice big fenced backyard, a basement, a kitchen with fancy new appliances, a walkable neighborhood with amenities. We liked it a lot, but this was our rebound house. It couldn't possibly compare to THE ONE. We applied anyway, since it's nice to have a backup even when you're pining for the one who got away. Then, as the hours and days passed, we started thinking more about the new house. Thinking about the possibilities of the backyard and whether the shed would make a good writing studio. I started thinking about being able to plant a garden and wondering how much it would cost me to set up a burner for glass beadmaking on the back patio. I mentally planned the layout of my bedroom and my office, and William and I started talking about paint colors.

Then we got the call. They wanted us. It had finally worked. We wanted them, they wanted us, we were all very excited. I drove by a few times to make sure, then tonight we went over to the house to sign the lease. It was even more perfect the second time. Bedrooms were bigger than we remembered, the yard was in better shape, the basement much more spacious. The landlords were even more friendly and easygoing than when we first met them. They even drew out a little landscape plan of all of the plants that are growing in the yard. In short, everything was awesome.

Tonight, a part of me that has been stressed for about three months has finally relaxed. I'm so pleased to know that the weeks of struggling are finally paying off. Now all I have to worry about is the actual packing and moving part. Piece of cake.

Home

Lately I've been looking for a new place to live. Living on Hawthorne has been an incredibly valuable experience and I have grown a lot in the two years since I moved to my lovely but very expensive apartment building, but there are so many other things I would rather spend that rent money on. Nevertheless, moving away from the richness of that experience tears at my soul a little bit. I'm not sure what awaits me in this new chapter, whether I will hate moving away and immediately start saving up to move back or whether I will find new things to love, new challenges to respond to. Maybe a little of both.

Alongside my ambivalence about moving comes the gut-wrenchingness that is moving itself. First there's the pressure of finding just the right place, where William and I both feel comfortably at home and have enough space to live our lives without being all up in each other's business. Then there are other requirements, like a neighborhood where we can walk to things and a yard or some kind of outdoor space so I can try my hand at growing things. Then you have to filter out everything that's too expensive or doesn't allow pets or thinks only dogs less than 25 pounds are acceptable tenants. Unsurprisingly, that leaves very little for us to choose from, which means compromise. Oh, the horror!

We're on our third round of applying now. The first apartment we applied for decided they didn't want to allow dogs at all. The second one was being leased by a fairly squirrely guy who said he was going to continue to take a few applications after we turned ours in, which made us a little uneasy. So last night we went out looking again. I spent the day sifting through the same listings I had pored over and rejected over the past few weeks, trying to decide if maybe I really could live in that less-desirable neighborhood or deal with coin-op laundry or find a way to pay a little bit more every month. I came up with several options, none of them perfect on paper, but all worth a drive-by at the very least.

We fell in love with the second place we looked at. The junior-high, butterflies in the pit of your stomach, heart-racing kind of love. We ran around peeking in all the windows we could reach (and when we couldn't reach we stood on things) and though we tried to keep our cool and act like grown-ups about the whole thing, inside our minds were racing with ideas. We're still both flying high a day later, despite the fact that we don't know if the house already has apps on it or if we will even be approved. Despite the fact that we haven't actually been inside the place yet.

Tonight we're meeting with the owner and filling out applications after taking a look inside. My every instinct is telling me relax, prepare for the worst, don't like this place so much because then you probably won't get it. And chances are that someone else has already applied, will soon be living in OUR house. But the romantic in me wants to believe that our feelings are real, that the fact that we connected with this one house so quickly means something. That once, just once, in 30+ years of life's ordinary disappointments, this one will go our way.

Fingers crossed.

Americorps

Stressful times at work are going to be coming to a head soon. My boss is interviewing candidates for the supervisor job I applied for and I have a sinking feeling that they're going to hire from outside rather than promote from within. Sure, some of that feeling is paranoia and my own insecurity, but the fact remains that I have no idea how this is actually going to go. And when the future looks murky and unclear I usually have a pretty powerful urge to unmurkify it by choosing some other direction for my life to go in, focusing on something else. This week it was Americorps.

My supervisor at Richmond Place is an Americorps volunteer, as was the supervisor before her, so I know a little bit about the program and how it works. Basically you work for next to no money on a volunteer project for a year or so and then afterward you get a small scholarship to help you pay for your student loans (or you can opt for a stipend). Of course you get a year of experiences and helping people as well, which is the part that makes it enticing. In certain circumstances you also get to try living in a new city for a year, always an interesting option.

I've been talking to my RP supervisors about it for a few months and thinking about it in an abstract way, but this week when I was feeling all uncertain about the future I finally decided to go ahead and submit an application. I applied for a few programs that looked interesting to me and one of them sent me some more information. The part I looked at first was the money because you have to be able to make that work. The money is very, very little, in this case about minimum wage. They do that, I'm sure, because it's a social government program so they probably don't have much money to give out to begin with. They sell it as you living at the same wage level as the people you are helping, which makes it kind of awesome.

But still, there are practical problems with living at minimum wage, like how one pays their car payment, perhaps. I got out my calculator and did the math and no matter what I tried I couldn't make it work. Just couldn't do it. And that was frustrating and sad, but in a way also a positive thing. Because I really think Americorps is something I could do, something where I can go have an adventure and help people and try new things and learn a lot and I won't need to get my degree first. All I need to do is save up some scratch. That's the kind of situation that can not only give me something to look forward to, but imbue my tough, sometimes soulless corporate job with some kind of purpose, the very thing it has been lacking. Suddenly the future is looking brighter indeed.

About that tattoo...

You know, I've tried to put my Big Sur trip into words and it's just not happening, like how I couldn't write about Yellowstone that time (I still can't). Suffice it to say that I had an incredible, dynamic, life-changing time at Esalen and I will definitely be going back next year if I can.

The tattoo was borne of a short essay I wrote in one of the workshops, on my mother and perfectionism. She's a very "just so" kind of person and I realized on that trip that as her daughter I had internalized those expectations to the point where I was expecting perfection out of myself in everything I did. Just writing it down and seeing it there on the page made me realize that that's not how I want to live. On the drive back home (a wonderful time to puzzle things out) I started thinking about rejecting perfection and how beautiful imperfections are in all of us. At a truck stop, I pulled a sharpie out of my bag and wrote the word 'imperfectly' on my arm, thinking I would sit with it for a week or so and see how it felt to broadcast my feelings on my skin. A few hours of driving later I made a call to a Portland tattoo parlor to inquire about an appointment for a consultation. They asked if I wanted to just do it today and, seizing the moment, I said okay.

So this is what I got. Afterward I had a few minutes of quietly freaking out, feeling like I had made a huge mistake that couldn't be taken back, but now that it's healed I really love it. And that's the tattoo story.

Unrequited Love

"Man, I was thinking about unrequited love. I figure it's best to just walk that shit off. Find someone else to be excited about. It's like if you love ice cream but your ice cream man friend won't give you any. Maybe he's got a good reason. It cuts into profits. Who knows? But he likes you as a friend and wants to hang out anyway. It just drives you crazy to hang out with that dude, even if he's being reasonable from his point of view. So don't hang out with him. What, you ONLY like ice cream? It's ice cream or nothing? Don't be an asshole. Learn to love donuts." --Joey Comeau (a softer world)

I love this. Apropos of nothing, at least right now, but I have certainly experienced my fair share of unrequited love drama.

In other news, my Write Around Portland Prompt workshop starts tonight. I'm very excited about having the opportunity to write in a group every week and maybe start to give myself permission to sit down and tell my stories instead of worrying about what everyone will think. Also, you never know who you're going to meet and how they might affect the flow of your life.

I miss school.

Evolution

Personal change happens so slowly, in such tiny increments that we don't even notice it until time moves on and we can see our former selves from a distance. The other day I was looking through my flickr photostream at the self-portraits I took as part of the 365 project right after T and I broke up. The person I was then and the person I am now are so incredibly different. Last week I found a document on my computer containing a few sketches I wrote almost two years ago when I was so lonely I felt like my heart was breaking every day. It was amazing to read them, to remember how that felt and to realize that I don't really feel that way anymore. Post-breakup was an incredibly rocky and painful time that lasted way longer than I expected it to, but I finally feel like I am emerging from the other side, ready to experience whatever comes next.

:)

Back to School

You know what's not cheap? College tuition, especially private liberal arts college. I found out recently that my student loans will not cover a decent-sized chunk of my tuition at Marylhurst. I will admit, I allowed myself to freak out about this for a few moments. I even considered chucking the whole plan and going back to PSU or maybe finding an entirely new school to finish my degree. Then last week I met with my academic advisor, one of the heads of the English department, and I knew beyond any doubt that I was finally in the right place.

I arrived a little early for my appointment, having come straight from work and experienced lighter traffic than usual. I waited out the extra time in my car, chatting with William on the phone and watching a man in a blue t-shirt and cutoffs kick around a soccer ball with his young son. This was only my second visit to the Marylhurst campus and I was relieved to find that it still inspired the same excitement and feeling of belonging as the first time. Four o'clock approached and I gathered my paperwork and strode into the lobby of Marian Hall, the home of my advisor's office. There were two other people waiting there, an older gentleman on the phone in the far corner and a man about my age who had clearly made himself at home. He had removed his suit coat and draped it over one of the available chairs. His briefcase was open on one end of the adjoining sofa and he was sprawled in such a way across the remainder of space that the only place left to sit was the final chair, which was awkwardly close to him. I sat, invading his personal bubble as he invaded mine. He didn't look up. He was reading something on his iPad that greatly amused him.

I found myself silently praying to the academic gods that this man not be my advisor, waiting for me in the lobby as he had mentioned in his email. Please let my advisor be someone who isn't so oblivious to the people around him, who wouldn't just sit there engrossed in something else when I'm sitting right in front of him. Let my advisor be someone who doesn't own an iPad (I don't know why...it's just a thing).

Moments later my prayers were answered when my advisor entered the lobby slightly sweaty, out of breath, and with a mop-headed child in tow. I immediately recognized the blue t-shirt and cutoffs. He flashed a delighted grin as he introduced himself and shook my hand, then we headed upstairs. Jay had an easy manner and a sweet confidence that I imagined made him a favorite among the Marylhurst coeds. He was already becoming a favorite of mine.

When we rounded the corner into his office, I was again surprised. Instead of the stuffy leather and dark wood I expected from my years at Wesleyan, Jay's office was an explosion of color. Almost every inch of every surface was covered with child art in some stage of completion. Scattered across the floor were markers, stacks of construction paper, glue and glitter. I picked my way to the office's only chair as Jay's son collapsed in a heap in the corner and resumed work on his latest masterpiece.

Jay and I talked for a bit about my transfer credits and which courses I should take in my first quarter. Since I've already taken almost all of my core classes it sounds like I'm going to be working mainly in my major. This could be a plus, that I won't be distracted by other subjects, but it also means a lot of fairly intense writing classes back to back. If Jay is correct about how easy it is for students to get the classes they want - which is a nice change from PCC where you have to be online immediately after registration opens to get into some of the more popular and required offerings - then I should be able to structure my schedule so I'm not hating life come September.

I left Jay's office with a list of classes that might work, some other new student information, and a business card with his cell number written on it. As I emerged from Marian Hall, content from the meeting and excited about my upcoming classes, one thought played repeatedly in my head: "Hey, it's only money."

note: I did end up deciding to take this semester off for financial reasons. I can't wait until I can finally start my classes at Marylhurst. Hopefully in the winter...

On Saturday

I went to a writing workshop this weekend, my first ever, at the central public library downtown. I had never actually been inside the library (I know, I'm slow. It took me three years of living here before I set foot inside Powell's) but man, it is one fantastic space. Exactly as a library should be, I think. Anyway, I found the workshop during a random google search for Tom Spanbauer, a writer and teacher beloved by many in Portland and elsewhere. The workshop was already full by the time I found it but I determinedly registered anyway, figuring someone or another would drop out. In the days before the workshop I debated with myself about not even going down to the library, because really who am I to walk into a public place and declare I want to learn how to write? I was nervous.

On the morning of the workshop I woke up early, planned out my route on the bus (which I hadn't ridden even once since I got my car...tsk), and did a bit of light dithering over whether I would go or not. Finally I decided I would hate myself too much for not taking advantage of the opportunity to meet and listen to Tom Freaking Spanbauer so I shoved my fear in a sack and dragged myself out the door.

When I got there, I joined the queue of nervously-waiting prospective writers outside the US Bank Room. There was a library employee at the door, granting access to the lucky registrants and shunning the poor bastards on the waiting list who had to sit outside and wait to be called in. After much hand-wringing about what to do about the waiting list, Tom himself came out to the lobby and just told them to add some more chairs, he would deal with the multitudes of us. We who were quietly freaking out about not being let in suddenly began freaking out about actually being let in and having to write something and potentially share with the class. We filed into the room and filled in the chairs. I noticed a chair at one of the tables that hadn't been claimed and sat myself in it, relieved to have something to hide at least partly behind.

Tom came around and introduced himself to each and every person in the room, though somehow I managed to just miss him when I ran to the back to get a notepad and pen. When he began to speak, though, it felt like he was talking just to me. He spoke for a while on writing and Dangerous Writing and building character by deconstructing sentences and some people asked questions and he answered them as graciously as possible and then...it was time for writing. Panic stabbed through my heart as he gave the writing prompt. What if I couldn't think of anything to write about? What if I wrote something but it was utter crap? What if I wrote something I thought was pretty good so I read it out loud and he said it was utter crap?

The prompt was "write about the moment that, after you were different". So yes, a life-changing moment. I could think of a few of those, but was I ready to write about them and/or read them out loud? I wasn't sure. Regardless, I put my pen to paper and started scratching out sentences. Once I got started the words just poured out of me without much actual thought, as if I had had this story tucked in my subconscious for exactly this type of occasion, just waiting for someone to ask for it.

Twenty minutes later, even though I had much much more to say, we had to stop writing. Tom asked if anyone wanted to read, several people read and got some good notes. I, meanwhile, found myself surreptitiously reading and editing my piece, willing it to be perfect. Remembering my earlier fear of thinking something was great and then reading it and having Tom and the room decide that it sucked, I struggled with myself to put down the pen and leave some errors in there to work with. Then began the inner conflict about whether I was going to read or not. See, I love praise and attention of all kinds, so part of me really longed to have everyone's eyes on me while I graced them with my brilliant prose. On the other hand, the part of myself acquainted with reality recognized that reading the piece out loud was a big risk, since I am just a beginning writer and the thing I wrote about was very personal, more than many of the others that had been read so far.

In the end it came down to an awkward silence. Everyone who wanted to read had read, and Tom was looking around the room and asking individual people if they wanted to read. My attention-loving side took over and volunteered, and in a voice that was only the tiniest bit shaky, I read my piece out loud to a room of strangers. It was exhilarating and terrifying, especially when he stopped me and started to critique.

Now some of you may not believe this, but I've never been one to take criticism well. My defensiveness has a hair trigger and if I had to name one thing I hate more than anything else in the world (except maybe Nazis), it would be the experience of being publicly wrong. With all that said, being critiqued by Tom Spanbauer was a genuine pleasure. Every note he had, every comment made so much sense and would so clearly improve the piece if I were to pursue it that I had nothing to offer at the end except a grin and a sincere "thank you".

Soon thereafter the class broke up and we all went our separate ways. As I walked to the bus stop I mulled over the workshop, relishing its significance, immersing myself in it just a few moments longer. Finally the bus came and it was back to the real world for me. As I rode home I realized that I would never really be the same after that experience, not as a writer or a person.

All because of a free writing workshop at the library. How divine....:)

Denouement

I fretted for weeks about my new boss. I kept hearing about project meetings I wasn't invited to and changes that were being made to our procedures and it was all very nerve-wracking. Then I finally had a chance to sit down and talk one-on-one with her and it changed everything. I got a chance to air my concerns about what would happen to my project and she listened and said she would endeavor to keep me in the loop. I got to discuss some ideas about our department and its culture and found that she and I shared several of the same intangible goals for our group, like focusing more on service than on call stats, working to regain the good will of my client, and forming a more cohesive team. In short, that meeting was the absolute perfect antidote for my stressed-out paranoia. In thirty short minutes of discussion, my inner voices of doubt quieted down and every last trace of worry was eradicated. Pretty amazing, huh?

Change is change

Work has been something of an anxiety-inducing nightmare lately. There's been some...ahem..turnover. Some key members of our department, for better or worse, have taken their leave. The grand result of this situation is...dun dun DUNNNN! We have a new boss.

I've talked with her in a few meetings now and I have to say that I really like her and am optimistic about the effect she could have on our department, and not just because she could one day google my name and read this whole thing (did I mention she is so very pretty?). It'll be good to have some positivity in our group again, to be able to actually try to help customers instead of finding ways to say no to them. The anxiety comes in because I don't know what's going to become of the project I spend the majority of my work time on. I actually really love this project and have invested several years of my working life into getting to know the intimate details involved and making our support processes more efficient. So I'm a little twisted up inside over the possibility that we might soon either drop the project or cut way back on the amount of support we do for it. This would make me essentially irrelevant, and if there's one thing I hate being, well, that's it.

Right now all I can do is wait and see. Patience not being my most outstanding virtue, I've been driving myself quietly crazy, pouncing on any new nugget of information that might help me predict the future. Deep down though, I know I have zero control here. Not loving it.

A new direction

My life has a tendency of changing direction at a moment's notice. Yesterday morning I was all set to go to Costa Rica in a month, now I'm not going until next March. I postponed the trip for very good reasons but it still doesn't stop me from being a little sad when I see my Costa Rica book sitting on the coffee table or all the notes about hostels in Monteverde along the margins of my notepad at work. And now that there's more time to plan, I've managed to get my parents interested in going on the trip with me, which I'm excited about and promises to be a lot of fun, but also removes somewhat the element of daring and unknown associated with going by myself.

So what's a thrillseeker like me to do? Well, playing with fire and molten glass sounds like a good start. See, last weekend Mom and I took a weekend trip up to Tacoma to see all of the glass art there. We also spent some time observing the glass blowers in the hot shop of the Museum of Glass and made our own blown glass vases at the Tacoma Glassblowing Studio. I really really loved it. I didn't want it to be over. So when I got back to Portland, the first thing I did was search for a glassblowing studio in town and sign up for an eight week class. I can't wait to get started!

Yesterday Costa Rica, today glassblowing. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?

Already?

I have a trick knee.  By which I mean it played a trick on me and pretended to be all injured so I would spend $150 postponing my trip to Costa Rica, but once I'd done that I woke up this morning with almost no pain and nary a limp.  F you too, knee.

Stupid human body

I hate being fallible.  I hate that I can't always be 100% healthy or that parts of my body don't always work exactly the way I want them to.  I hate that this fallibility can sometimes prevent me from doing exactly what I would like to do.  But playing the ostrich and pretending that my knee will just magically fix itself in time for my Costa Rica trip is not going to work.  So instead I've decided to postpone my trip.  I'm giving myself eight extra months to do the physical therapy and strengthen my knee, get into better cardiovascular shape and just get back to being the physical person I used to be before my knees stopped cooperating. 

It was a tough decision.  Not only do I hate admitting my fallibility, I also hate waiting for things.  Right now, though, when I can't even walk around Tacoma without almost putting myself out of commission the next day, it makes more sense to take my time and not push my limits.  I'll just have to cross my fingers and hope that Costa Rica is still there when I'm ready to go see it. 

Super

More things I can't do in Costa Rica:

Zipline canopy tour in Monteverde (limit 275 lbs)

Horseback riding from Monteverde to Volcano Arenal (limit 200 lbs)

What a bummer.

Living while fat

So I'm planning this trip to Costa Rica, looking at possible activities I can do when I'm there, and I come upon parasailing. Now I've never given parasailing a second thought, but the moment I click on this webpage and see the pictures of people soaring above the beach, I know it is something I really really want to do. Even better, the parasailing company's website says something about 'all shapes and sizes' of people being able to participate in parasailing. Heck yes, I'm psyched! That is, until I read their FAQ a little closer and see that, to them, 'all sizes' means up to 250 pounds.

I know, I'm larger than most and I should be used to being excluded or not considered by now, but it felt like such a dirty trick for them to proclaim how accessible parasailing is when they really only mean it's accessible to non-fat people. It's as if they're saying. "not only can you not participate, we're going to pretend folks your size don't even exist."

That rejection of my very existence really pushed my buttons. In fact, if I hadn't booked my plane ticket already I probably would have decided to skip Costa Rica altogether. That's how much I hate being ignored and marginalized. But that's a whole lot of power to hand over to some employee of a Costa Rican parasailing company. Sure, fat travel has always been a challenge and I will probably encounter numerous occasions where I don't exactly fit and feel awkward and slightly uncomfortable, but that's no reason to not go.

Contestants on The Biggest Loser are always going on and on about how they have 'gotten their life back' by losing weight, and I kind of get what they mean. Spending your life safely on your sofa can be a really compelling idea when the alternative means always being uncomfortable or unsure, encountering messages at every turn that your body is wrong or invalid, or worse, dealing with outright discrimination and vitriol because of your size. So yeah, one way to deal with that is to hide in your house and wait for the day that your body looks like everyone else's. Or you could just choose to live now.

Luckily I've never been very good at waiting.

Costa Rica!

So yes, the secret is out, this summer I am going to Costa Rica!! Dad and I had been talking about doing a Spanish immersion program in Mexico but he wasn't ready to go this summer so I started thinking about going on my own. With all of the Spanish-speaking countries to choose from, Costa Rica was the one that really jumped out at me. So my initial plan was to do Spanish immersion there, but now I think I might skip the Spanish immersion and just go have a lovely vacation.

One of the great things about CR is that a lot of backpackers, surfers and students come through there, so there are hostels in every major city or region. Hostels are nice and cheap, but I also like them because, as a single traveler, it's nice to have other folks around to talk to or share experiences with. One of my goals on this trip is going to be getting to know some new folks, being more open to new experiences, and just cutting lose and having fun without worrying too much about the plan or itinerary. I can't wait!

Going places

This year is shaping up to be epic in ways I never imagined. First of all, the weight loss thing is working and NOT making me crazy, something I never thought would be possible. Then, I finally selected my major, one that I find continuously interesting and should give me a lot of good insights into my future plans, be they real or fiction-based. Finally I will be taking not one, not two, but THREE fantastic trips this year, one to Tacoma to explore glass art with my mom, one to Big Sur to explore writing with The Sun, and one to a secret location to explore...well, secret things. I'll be more explicit when my plans are more solid.

Oh also, I got a cat, one of mine from when I lived with T. She's feisty and grumpy and aggressive and fits in perfectly with me and Rosie.

So yep, pretty fantastic year so far. Stay tuned for updates!

But someday...

You will be happy to know that I have canceled my online dating account again.  I am just not ready.

Family

From a recent trip to the Oregon coast. Every year I spend with these people it becomes more clear how incredibly lucky I am. Love you guys.

Five

It's been five years since my brother had cranial surgery to remove a brain tumor, and his post on the experience is stirring up my old memories as well. I remember being at the hospital but being so terrified of seeing him in that bed that I couldn't even go into his room. Mom, Dad and others were keeping vigil in the hospital waiting room but I had trouble even walking into the hospital.

Back then I didn't know exactly what was wrong with me that I couldn't just go inside but now I think I have some idea. See, the idea of something happening to my big brother, the big goofball I had always looked up to, just broke my heart. All I wanted to do was cry (and I did, a lot). My family, on the other hand, were so stoic about the whole affair. My mom especially was so calm and focused on a positive outcome that I was afraid to even be around her for fear that I would slip up, start bawling and disrupt her concentration.

It was clear to me that I was going about this whole thing the wrong way, that I should just have acted like craniotomy day was just another day, but I was fucking terrified that something would go wrong and I had no idea how to keep that fear off of my face and out of my mind. So instead I stayed away.

Luckily, everything worked out. After a harrowing year of surgeries and radiation treatments, Brian was on the mend. Five years later, we are all doing so well compared to then. We have been so lucky. Not only did that experience set off a chain of events that moved the entire family to Portland, I think it brought us all closer emotionally as well.

Anyway, Bri, I love you. Thanks for sticking around. You have literally changed my life for the better about a million times over.

xo

I think I'm going about this the wrong way

Chat transcript

Potential suitor: What's a gorgeous lady like yourself doing online dating anyhow?

Me: Oh, I just enjoy punishing myself

Potential suitor: ...

Potential suitor: ...why?

Me: Never mind.

Um, what?

I reactivated my online dating profile today.  Why did I do this?  I don't want to date.  In fact, I can't think of anything I'd like less right now than to open myself up to another human being.  Here's hoping nobody wanders into my sexy sexy trap and has to face rejection.

Space and choice

Today was a great day for several reasons. First of all, I took my last final exam for the semester over my lunch hour, so I'm totally done with those classes. Secondly, I've been thinking for a little while about just transferring to PSU instead of finishing my associates and then transferring, and it turns out if I do that I can avoid taking public speaking AND the final semester of chemistry. So YAY! I actually don't have to take anything next semester at all, but I am going to finish out the year of Spanish, plus take another course that interests me so I can qualify for financial aid to pay for the Spanish. I'm thinking about maybe P.E.

So right now I don't have any school at all to worry about, which is very relaxing. I'm excited because this frees up some of my time and makes way for other things I want to do, like writing, going to the gym, and making a dent in that stack of books on my nightstand. I also need to take some time and wrap my mind around how I am going to provide meals for myself, since lately I have been hitting convenience foods pretty hard and that kind of thing doesn't make me feel good, physically or mentally.

Remember how last post I was talking about my trouble with too many options? I have done some more thinking about that and realized that the idea of making solid decisions is really scary for me. I think some of it is still fallout from the breakup, where I thought I had made the right decision and had some idea of where things were going and then they ended. Yes, I was the one who ended them, but I don't think at the time I had any idea of how much those events would rock me to the core and really change who I was. And maybe it's because I was the one who ended things and caused T (and myself) a whole lot of pain in the process that I'm reluctant to make any more decisions because deep down, I'm afraid of doing that again. I'm afraid of being so wrong it's painful.

But you can't go through life just waiting for circumstances to decide for you. That's nothing but a waste of free will.

Too many options

Hello, I'm Carrie and angst is my default state. If you've read anything I've written here that should be abundantly clear by now. I'm so good at it I even get angsty about my angst, thinking maybe I should be happier and I'm effing things up by being so dissatisfied all of the time. Well I had a conversation with a friend this morning that, out of nowhere, changed everything. She proposed a theory that explained a lot of what I have been feeling, that I feel anxious because I have too many options. This totally resonated for me. For instance, lately I have been thinking about why I would even want a partner right now and the unromantic answer is that I would like to have that area of my life nailed down and decided. Hot, right? They should put that on a greeting card.

Having so many directions my life could go in is pretty stressful, especially when you figure in the pressure I put on myself to make the 'correct' decisions. I realize I am constantly looking for some sort of outside validation or guidance as to what I should do, be it writing, reading, going to school, traveling, whatever. I hate that. I'm the decider, dammit. But to be the decider I need to actually, you know, decide things and take responsibility for those decisions. Lately I've been feeling a little too 'things are happening to me' instead of 'I am making things happen' and I don't like it. So I think my first big decision is going to be to move my locus of control inward. It feels right.

Reclaiming free time

Normally, my weekend mantra is "homework, then fun". Saturdays are for Chem labs, Sundays are for online Chem homework and anything else that might be due. This weekend I tried a little experiment and gave myself permission to not do any homework at all. This weekend the plan was to prioritize fun. I woke up around eight (late for me), fed the dog, scrambled some eggs for breakfast, sat on the sofa and just turned the old brain off for the better part of a morning. Oh it was so nice to stop worrying about my business and get wrapped up in the drama on Private Practice. I mean really, who cares about a little chemistry homework when there are babies whose lives are hanging in the balance?

The best part about my morning was that by the afternoon I was really tired of watching TV so I sat down and did my Chem lab. With the pressure off (I had already come to grips with the effect not turning it in would have on my course grade), I found doing the lab to be an almost interesting and enjoyable experience.

Sunday was more of the same. There was chem homework and laundry to do but I started my day with what I wanted to do. Eventually I got that stuff done too, and I felt more in control of my weekend and less pressured to complete everything right! effing! now! It was a good thing.

Freaking out

I am really beginning to intensely dislike Chemistry, though that's mostly because I'm not all that good at it. I'm currently in the middle of my second semester of a three semester sequence and I just feel like I'm not really getting it. I thought about getting a tutor but the idea of having someone watch me have a freak out moment and cry when I can't find the correct answer is not all that appealing to me. The silly thing about all this is that even if I don't completely understand what is going on, I'll still probably be able to scrape together a B in the class. So I really would like to get to the bottom of what makes me so uncomfortable about this class. It's not the grade consequences exactly. Can I really be that wrapped up in my identity as a smart girl that it bothers me this much to not have all the answers?

One thing is for sure, this situation is causing me way too much undue stress. Compared to last semester, this semester's workload is actually quite a bit less, but for some reason I feel more wound up about it. I need to find a way to relax.

Honesty

Last night I went out with my family to see my sister-in-law and others read things they'd written for an amiable crowd at Mississippi Studios. Listening to everyone's fascinating and soul-revealing work made me wonder why I don't actually write anything, or why, when I do, it always feels so forced and inauthentic. The conclusion I came to when discussing it later with my family was that I don't think any of my stories are really ready to be told yet.

Later that night I found myself unable to sleep. Questions I didn't even know I had kept echoing through my head, like "when are you going to just be an adult?" and "when are you going to stop waiting for someone else to validate your existence?" The more I tugged at the thread of why I couldn't write, the more I realized it was because I don't want to be honest with myself (or anyone else). I carry around a little package of deep, dark secrets with me every day and some portion of my brain is always actively engaged in covering them up. The prospect of writing feels a little too much like opening that package and showing the contents to the world, when I'm not even sure I'm ready to look at them yet.

Of course now that I have acknowledged that arrangement, I am very curious to find out what's in there.

Giving myself a break, or trying to

I went online today to get my timing results for the First Run. I wasn't happy with the numbers and I was all ready to write a gut-twisting entry here lambasting myself for being so slow despite the work I'm doing, when I realized, maybe I should look at the numbers from my last 5k and compare. As it turns out, I beat my last 5k time by a little bit and now my walking mile pace is just under 20 minutes. So I'm glad about that, but a little concerned by how disappointed in myself I was before the time had context. I've held this attitude for what seems like my whole life, that my best effort really isn't good enough, that I need to try harder and harder. It's not healthy, and it causes me to stress out over all sorts of things, from working out to school, to my performance at work. I'm not entirely sure what to do about it.

In other news, my knee is still bothering me, especially in the wake of the First Run, so I decided to take my workout to the pool for a couple of weeks. Luckily Mt. Scott is on the bus line that goes right past my house so I should be able to make that work without too much trouble. I've also been thinking about yoga. The other day I realized that my apartment -- with its abundance of open floor space and natural light -- would be the perfect place to lay out a yoga mat and do some meditative, mind-body connecting things.

I've been contemplating doing a CSA farm share this year. Now that I'm so in love with vegetables (I had the most delicious broccoli as a snack the other day...broccoli!) it might be nice to get some fresh new ones to experiment with every week or so. The farm I'm looking at donates anything you don't want to take home to the Oregon Food Bank, so I wouldn't have to worry about something going to waste because I don't want to eat it. They also do flowers sometimes, which makes me happy :)

xo,
C