There are some posts that are harder to publish than others.
I used to get nervous every time I hit the “publish” button. I’d sort of duck my head, as if you could all see me at the very moment a blog post took to the web. I used to feel sick, although not severely, unless it was something really hard to write. I think I felt a little crazy when I was publishing my love story – even crazier when I was writing it to the music I used to listen to when I first lived it. I felt like how I had felt then – but all at once. Sometimes then, and sometimes now – I felt/feel like this:
It’s a true combination of many things to feel – overwhelmed, lost, and always full of joy and magic, however hidden that may be – and sometimes it’s deeply buried. I was going to write about my weekend in New Jersey for a birthday BBQ and a surprise baby shower, but I’ve been in the car for a chunk of my day and it’s a little late right now and the story in my heart is this one.
In high school, I was a lot like I am now. A floater with lots of types of friends. I was warm and friendly to everyone, unless someone pushed me to my limits, which is highly rare, but that would be the only reason I wouldn’t be warm and friendly to you.
I could and can relate to almost everyone. Almost.
I actually did have a core group of friends who were artists, writers, musicians, singers or just all around open and friendly people, and I also brought home lots of strays. That’s how I was then. That’s how I am now. I enjoyed (nearly) everyone – even those who were considered “losers” and those who were so clearly not going anywhere in life – partly by design and partly by circumstances. One of my secrets back then is that I would pass through these dark clouds of time in which I’d think horrible thoughts about myself, no matter how ludicrous they were, and how illogical. They were true enough to me.
Occasionally, I have those thoughts again. I used to babysit for three kids and the youngest was a baby. I remember waking him up from a nap one day and thinking about how loved he was and how meaningful he was to his family, and how I wished I could be worth something. Anything. When not in the dark clouds, I know that it’s ludicrous. I’ve always had a place to belong.
And that baby I used to babysit and wonder why his life meant so much more than mine? He’s now in high school. And that proves just how long it’s been since I have let myself believe in the dark clouds about myself, and how it happens even now.
Sometimes I think that there is no one more hideous than I am. That overweight people can lose weight, acne can heal, wrinkles can be erased, Botoxed or lasered, or whatever else that can be done to wrinkles – but you can’t fix hideous so you can’t fix me.
Sometimes I think that everyone else has more promise than I do, and that everyone is more capable than I am.
I live, love and sometimes suffer within the confines of my own mind. Sometimes I think that even people with depression are better off than me because maybe pills or counseling can help them. I’m genuinely joyful a LOT, but sometimes I think that anyone without my mind is better off than I am. Life transitions tend to run through me a thousand times over up to months before a big change. Can any pill help that? Probably not, but I believe that many things can.
Sometimes I think any other woman could make him happier than I can.
Sometime I think I’m the weaker sister, in every way.
If an amateur photographer takes one good photo out of 100, sometimes I somehow I let that negate the fact that I can take 60 good photos out of 100.
Sometimes I hear someone say they’d like to write a book and I think that no matter who they are, they will write a book that I can’t seem to write. Sometimes if someone tells me they are thinking of joining the workforce, I think it would be easier for them than it would be for me, because sometimes I think I have no skills.
Sometimes I think that I’m not strong enough to maneuver this world as a parent, with the constant tests, and the constant letting in and letting go.
Sometimes I think that I can’t handle another birthday; another year gone.
Sometimes I think comfort and safety will give way in older age to impenetrable anxiety – worsening with each day.
Sometimes I think that, like always, I will be able to find new ways to rise above and grow.
Sometimes I think that all of these wrongs are just as much right. Together, they make up who I am.
And most of the time? These thoughts are only notable because they are not my default setting. My head is above the dark clouds, or maybe even below. Somewhere safe from the darkness. Anywhere but in between.
“The less we say about it the better
Make it up as we go along
Feet on the ground
Head in the sky
It’s ok I know nothing’s wrong . . nothing” — Talking Heads