lonely

Why is it that no-one is taking pictures of me anymore? I'm generalizing to be sure, but my poor little ego is taking a hit when everyone is posting these awesome fun 'summer' albums on facebook, and I'm not in any of them. It hurts a little to be in the transition zone.

My friends are changing now; most of those that I went to school with have moved on, or married, or whatever. All the rest of the old college/work/university friend groups were exactly that; college friends, work friends, university friends. The relationships didn't thrive outside of the greenhouses they were sprouted in. What's tough is that my boyfriend's friend group (my friends last summer) has shifted away as well. They all want to do party drugs, and go to the dance club, and play video games. Neither Dave nor I have any desire to do any of those things (not that I really had much desire to do any of those things in the first place).

My 'friends' for the most part, are little more than acquaintances. My landlord and his fiancée, my neighbour and his wife, the folks that volunteer on the same committees as I do. It's spare. My other good friends in town-- well, one is always busy with her boyfriend, and the other has a child and not a lot of free time. I think what it comes down to (the problem part of it) is that there is no-one around to talk to. And the picture thing I mentioned at the start of all this. I kind of feel a lack of validation-- how can I be having fun if no-one else is witness to my enjoyment? I can't look back and say, "hey, remember in the summer of 2010 when we..."

Anyway. Enough drama. It's time for me to suck it up, and find the positive things about loneliness. The stretches of free time in which Things of Importance can be accomplished. The peacefulness. Stuff like that.

It's all good, right? And eventually, the people will sort themselves out, and I'll have a fine, friendly, frisky bunch of friends, ready to share adventures with me once again. Soon. I hope.

Emptiness

All I want is a clean life. An empty, clean, blank, pristine life. I hate junk, I hate clutter, I hate knick-knacks and photo frames and inspirational quotes on wooden plaques-- and yet I can’t help but acquire these things, and by acquiring them, let them affect my peace with their plastic sensibilities.

We live these huge messy lives. We always want more, even if at the core of our beings, we know what we really need is less.

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I was reading a little bit in the library yesterday. I was looking for photographs of Elvis and somehow instead ended up in the Humour/Meaning of Life section of the stacks. I found a book by Eric Hoffer (author of The True Believer, a book on the causes of social fanaticism, which was given to me to read by my grade 12 English teacher, Mr. Snyder). This book was The Passionate State Of Mind, and Other Aphorisms . I only read a little bit, but was struck by the idea that passion is the desire to fill a void in ourselves; and that often obtaining the item of our passions is not sufficient to fill that void. That the expression of passion is, in fact, the expression of an enormous, gaping emptiness.

It made me feel good, because I have always felt that there was something wrong with me, simply because I lacked passion—for anything in life. There is no One Thing that makes my heart leap or my soul move. I thought that, being passionless, I would also be directionless, without success or recognition. I realize now that it has only been my own feelings of disappointment in myself that have ever slowed me down or prevented me from achieving marvelous things. I don’t need passion. I need faith in myself.

I don’t need any more than that.

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Friday

Ahhh, Friday.

I like that Friday has meaning for me again. You know how it is when you have one of those mall jobs, where Friday is meaningless, because Tuesday or Wednesday is your 'Friday'. The fact that Friday is the signifier of two non-working days ahead (well, non 9-5 job days) is a blessing for me. Makes me feel grown up.

I'll take my blessings however they come.

One thing at a time

My boyfriend was giving me a bad time last night. For my birthday (almost 6 months ago) he gave me a certificate for a massage. I have been saving it. He wanted to know- for what? I was trying to figure it out—because I’m certainly not saving it for a day when my muscles are tense and aching, because they are always tense and aching. I realized that I have been saving the massage for a time when I felt that it was ok to relax. I have viewed the massage as decadent, as time-wasting… why would I spend an hour being delightfully rubbed by a stranger when I could be doing some grocery shopping. or balancing my budget. or doing some laundry. or preparing a lesson plan, or painting, or cooking, or cleaning, etc, etc, etc? He looked at me very sadly when I explained myself, and said, “Wow baby. I put myself first.”

Why is that so hard for me to do?

Multi-tasking is far too highly valued in our society. A multi-tasked task is usually a half-assed operation—for me anyway. I mean, by all outward appearances, I am a highly functioning! getting things done! kind of woman, but the truth of the matter is far sadder. Because I never relax, I never seem to have the energy to focus. Because I don’t focus, all of the random actions of life that make up my days are done with a minimal amount of attention and effort. Which means that I don’t get things finished. Or that the things that I finish are often completed late, or inadequately. Which means that when I review my efforts, I am routinely disappointed in myself.

Routine disappointment breeds apathy. Apathy leads to feelings of meaninglessness. Living without meaning causes depression. Which explains why I am medicated!

So. Perhaps the first step, other than asking for help, is to step back and take a breath, and really look at all the little pieces that make up my days. I need to do some weeding, so that the tasks that I want to do and need to do are done in a satisfactory way. I think I can start there.

Peas

I was gardening a little in the rain yesterday, staking up the pea plants that, until now, have been writhing about in the dirt looking for something to climb. I found their struggles to be shockingly self-destructive; in lieu of a pole, a string, a fence, they grabbed hold of themselves, and choked off their own life systems. I saved as many as I could, tenderly unfurling their grasp on their own necks and bodies, reattaching them as best I could to their new supports.

It hit me hard, how similar their struggles were to my own. I flail about in a desperate attempt to find my path, and without a clear road ahead of me, I hang on to my own self so hard that I cause damage. I have to accept support if I really want to move forward. It's a hard thing to do, when you are used to finding your own answers. But I suppose if finding answers by myself was effective, I would have found them by now. Time to start listening, taking help when it is offered.

where the beginning is

I'm blogging again because I need to.

I've had a couple blogs before. Another one that I started writing when I moved to Japan in 2005. (I don't live there anymore.) Another that I wrote when the über-happy stylings of the first blog wore thin; the Japan blog was being read by parents and teachers and relatives and friends, and I didn't want them to be disappointed when my post-Japan life was revealed to be less than exhilarating. The second blog let me vent, let me be 'evil me', gave me room to spew the poison and filth that I rarely showed even to myself. Eventually that, too, became an unreal depiction of myself. I had a front, a persona that I had to maintain. Either way, in either blog, I was lying. Lying to my readers (whoever they were), and to myself.

I'm here today, starting afresh. Beginning with real honesty. Revealing who I am, in as healthy a manner as I am able, for the betterment of myself.

You see, I am on the mission of my life: I need to figure out exactly what it is that I want out of life. And I don't know how to do it. I have behind me years of self-help book rumination, years of listening to Tony Robbins and my parents and my teachers, months spent reading The Secret and Steering by Starlight and The Artist's Way. I've journalled, I've made vision boards, I've asked the universe for guidance, and either these things have helped me figure out what it is that I want and I just haven't realized it yet, or... Or I just haven't realized it yet.

I always like to read the "My 'Aha!' Moment" articles in O magazine, because they have concrete examples of people whose lightbulbs have magically, memorably, flicked right on. I have been waiting for that moment. Searching, fighting, struggling for that moment.

I am on the mission of my life, because knowing what it is that I want means my life. I have to know why I have this life, what the purpose of my life on this planet is, because I don't want to be just one more automaton, feeding and breeding and punching holes in the atmosphere for no good reason. I must have a purpose. Existing to feed and grow and get a mortgage and raise offspring, get a pension and then be buried in a nice cemetery with an expensive chunk of stone on my grave... it's not enough. It's no reason to exist.

For that matter; what is it that makes me think that my wants are so special and unique that my desires justify my existence either? I dunno. Regardless, I do believe that I have a purpose. And I really want to know what it is.

So- I write. With honesty. For clarity. With an audience, unknown, to help keep me real, to buoy me through the darkness. Thank you. And enough anonymity to keep me safe; to also keep me real. I need the realness, not the fantasy, to push me forward.