The lines crisscross my skin, along my chest and stomach- impressions the fabric of my dress left upon me even after I removed it. My vision starting to blur, everything a bit hazy-white around the edges, I’ve been awake too long, staring at screens too long, all day long. I keep thinking about the imperfect parts of myself, and then I get depressed, I get sad, I get upset and I do things that add to my imperfections and so the cycle continues. I thought maybe if I could break the cycle by writing about it, writing about all the wrong things, maybe I would feel more honest with myself. Maybe after I was honest, I could face these things and I could accept them, or change them.
I suppose we have to look at what there is and what I can change, what I can’t change. I had the idea once to write a self help book to myself. It was a good idea but I didn’t do it because I don’t finish books. I start them, but I never follow through with anything. Things take focus, perseverance and a lot of time and patience. The strange thing is that these are all qualities I possess, but for some reason I seem to lack the ability to combine forces and get shit done. Sticktoitness, I think they call it, is a quality I am grossly lacking.
I feel like I used to notice the world more. Now I witness things, but nothing really seems to surprise me anymore. I am increasingly more unhappy with my body. I’m getting older, fatter, weaker and more bent over. I’m not even thirty yet and this is happening to me. I didn’t chose to get hit by a car and to have pain every day of my life. I know there are things I could have done to make it better, and there still are things I can do to make it better.
No one but me can get me out of bed and make me do the things I need to do to become the person I want to be. I don’t want to hold on to dearly to the person I used to be, it always seems like things were better then, and you want things to be like they “used to be.” It’s really sad to think that things will never again be the way they once were, but I don’t think I should be continuously trying to recapture those moments. They are gone and I am on a quest for new and better ones. I’m not dead yet.
If I can write myself to be a more positive and proactive person, maybe I can become one. Maybe instead of noticing my clogged pores, and increasing adipose tissue, I could focus on making my dreams come true.
In order to make something come true you have to know what it is that you want. If I wanted a child I might not know who I wanted them to be, or who they would become, but simply knowing that I wanted one would set me on a certain course. I don’t want children of my own. Sometimes I get caught up in some romantic thoughts about it, sure, but realistically I can’t see myself in such a serious and committed relationship, not to mention a painful and mostly one-sided one.
That was a bit of a tangent, but I suppose it’s good to talk about what I do and don’t want. I don’t want to work for anyone, but with someone is much preferred. I want to travel and see the world, and meet the many people that populate it.
I have a strange relationship with my own species, I feel so outside of it sometimes, looking at humans as incredibly odd animals. They are animals who no longer feel like animals, who no longer see themselves that way. They are separate from nature, from the natural order of things, from the cycle of life on earth. Perhaps that is why they fear death so.
I fear death. I thought I didn’t but I was wrong. I do. The death of those whom I love frightens me most of all. But I often worry that I will die violently and painfully. It scares me. I try not to think about it, but I do, everyday.
I want to surround myself with friends, and family. With people who I love and who love me, with people who share my values. In an ideal world I would love to have a chosen community of those people to live with me and form a village. We would live close-knit lives in communion with the earth and all of her seasons. I could become more skilled at survival, stronger, more fit, healthy, energetic, and hopefully best of all I could become a better storyteller.
I would love to share stories with others. I would love to share myself with others. Writing is a way I can do that, but I often forget- or become too bogged down in negative thoughts and emotions. I used to get really down on myself and hard on myself when I didn’t write. It was as though I was letting down a friend by not keeping up with my journal. I still feel that but I am so used to feeling that with everything else in my life that I just stopped letting it affect me.
Clearly, all of these things affect me. For some reason I stopped listening to that part of myself. I think part of that is because I stopped writing. Writing and journaling was the way I could think things through, I could argue a point with myself, I could explain and explore a feeling or a thought or a desire. Instead, I now fill myself up with other people’s stories. I consume them like so much junk food. Filling me up but never satisfying me, leaving me hungry for more.
Oftentimes, I feel insecure. The things I feel…that my grammar or spelling isn’t right, that I will use words incorrectly and that, generally, I will be a terrible writer. But I want to be a writer, it’s all I ever really wanted to be without fully allowing myself to be it. Anything I ever wanted to be I never actually tried to be. That is a life plan sure to make me regret everything when I’m lying on my deathbed. Assuming of course I make it to a ripe old age and don’t get shot to death at a parade in New Orleans or something equally stupid and terrifying.
I want to travel. I want to love a lot of people, and be loved by a lot of people. I want to write. I want to make things, be creative and express myself in any way possible and without being afraid to fail. I want to fail so that I know I can try and fail and still keep trying. I have failed. I have failed so many times at doing the things that I thought I was supposed to do, that I fell into, that I thought I was good at and could use as stepping stones to the things I really wanted. But that never happened because I left those things behind and then it was all about surviving. Just getting money to survive and it didn’t matter how.
I am sick of surviving. I want to be happy! I want to DANCE instead of holding back. I used to dance all the time. I used to dance all the time and now I desire to dance. I keep holding myself back. I am my biggest obstacle. Remember when things outside were the biggest obstacle? Now it’s me. Perhaps it was me all along.
I need to get out of my own way.
I can have my dreams. I can make them come true!