As a kid, my mom would always have Kleenex stuffed underneath her sweater sleeve, wadded up in her pocket, and buried at the bottom of her purse. It drove me crazy and they were never nice, soft tissues --rather dried out, scratchy, snot-crusted and lipstick-blotted single-p ly wads of tissue. As a grown adult, I made it a mission of mine to never purchased single ply toilet paper or tissue paper. I was going to live the life, with some goddamn Charmin or Cottonelle and some fucking Puffs Plus Lotion.
So the week after the breakup, I went out and bought multiple boxes of puffs plus lotion. I littered boxes and crumples around the apartment. In the first week at least one box was empty. It's been two months and three more boxes now, and I was finally able to remove the one out of my bedroom. The daily tears had stopped .
But after recent ups and downs, reminiscing and flirting, and don't forget the fucking holidays, I found myself sobbing bedside tonight, once again grabbing onto sheets on "his" side of the bed. And so the tissues have returned.
I'm not quite sure where I'm going with this post. But I know that 2015 will bring lots of changes for me. Hopefully cheerful ones--a cross-country move, a new job (with higher income), being more physically active and toned, eating healthier, drinking less, and saving more.
If I save my goal funds for next year, I may celebrate with anything over that by treating myself to a vacation some where nice next year. Somewhere with the northern lights that glow so beautifully in winter.
Lord knows they have to have tissues at resorts overseas.
Tuesday, December 30, 2014
Saturday, December 20, 2014
PURGE ALL THE THINGS!!!! all the things???
I slept 11 hours last night. It w as marvelous. I've been feeling run down lately between working, helping Sarah move, meeting friends, applying g to jobs....namely my current job is driving me bonkers.
Anyway, I didn't change out of PJs all day, BUT today I was highly productive. Just not in the areas I should've been--like laundry and job applications. I spent the whole day reviewing my CD collection for any CDs not burn, burning CDs I have an burn, sorting CDs into ones I wanted to keep, ones I wanted to give away to friends, and one just wanted to sell. I also spent the night making soap. Yes. Soap. I was gifted a soapmaking kit, and in an attempt to rid myself of all my all natural body craft supplies, I thought I should use it all up at once. Nearly everyone I know will be getting some sort of heart-shaped soap for Christmas.
Now it's nearly 1 AM, and I'm just lying down to sleep. I only made it through the M section of my cds, but I'm pretty far done with the sorting. Just a few more hours and then boom---off to see if I can sell any. All my mixed CDs and burned CDs are going to be regifted to my coworkers. And the kids at Alternatives. Though I'm not sure if majority of my CDs are explicit or Not. Whatever.
At this point a large portion of my apartment has been sorted. which means it's all laying on my floor. This makes it not so easy functioning within the apartment. The cats are freaking out bc they see the writing on the walls. They have moved enough to know. When I get back from my trip to Iowa and Indy, I'll take it all to places to donate.
Towels to the cat shelter
Art stuff to kids at Alternatives, office stuff to office at Alternatives
Glasses to a glasses store (maybe they can donate them)
Running Shoes to fleet feet. Surely they'd have some sort of drive.
Clothes to Howard Brown
Bits and bobs to Howard Brown
Someone will likely pick up the lingerie cabinet and desk when I get back next Sunday.
CDs, books, and videos to half price books
Relist earrings
For ebay:
List jewelry box
List ikea table
I'm starting to feel relieved to get rid of so much. Like a weight will be lifted. Once I get it all out of the apartment, of course. Right now I'm in the planning and sorting phase. The purging is coming soon. I'm so ducking psyched.
Last year when I went through another major reoccurring relapse, I spoke with multiple friends about how I want to get rid of everything I my own . It seemed a bitch rushed and not thought out . So I moved everything with me to this one bedroom apartment. Across the country to an apartment one fourth the size I live in now, I have to do some major reconsidering of the definition of "need" and "want."
I've never been good at letting go of things. I understand everything has a purpose, and throwing it out just makes me feel bad for the people who helped create or invent it. Like it somehow devalues their place in the world because I threw out some stupid pin or bit of glitter. Like I have to repurpose every last bit of something until its use has been used up
I still own far too many things, but the more seriously I can dwindle my wares over the next two weeks when I have time off, the less I'll have to pay to pack, load, and move across the country.
For once I feel like I'm taking things in the right direction!
Now, about what I'm gonna have to wear tomorrow....looks like I MAY have to do laundry sooner than I thought!
Anyway, I didn't change out of PJs all day, BUT today I was highly productive. Just not in the areas I should've been--like laundry and job applications. I spent the whole day reviewing my CD collection for any CDs not burn, burning CDs I have an burn, sorting CDs into ones I wanted to keep, ones I wanted to give away to friends, and one just wanted to sell. I also spent the night making soap. Yes. Soap. I was gifted a soapmaking kit, and in an attempt to rid myself of all my all natural body craft supplies, I thought I should use it all up at once. Nearly everyone I know will be getting some sort of heart-shaped soap for Christmas.
Now it's nearly 1 AM, and I'm just lying down to sleep. I only made it through the M section of my cds, but I'm pretty far done with the sorting. Just a few more hours and then boom---off to see if I can sell any. All my mixed CDs and burned CDs are going to be regifted to my coworkers. And the kids at Alternatives. Though I'm not sure if majority of my CDs are explicit or Not. Whatever.
At this point a large portion of my apartment has been sorted. which means it's all laying on my floor. This makes it not so easy functioning within the apartment. The cats are freaking out bc they see the writing on the walls. They have moved enough to know. When I get back from my trip to Iowa and Indy, I'll take it all to places to donate.
Towels to the cat shelter
Art stuff to kids at Alternatives, office stuff to office at Alternatives
Glasses to a glasses store (maybe they can donate them)
Running Shoes to fleet feet. Surely they'd have some sort of drive.
Clothes to Howard Brown
Bits and bobs to Howard Brown
Someone will likely pick up the lingerie cabinet and desk when I get back next Sunday.
CDs, books, and videos to half price books
Relist earrings
For ebay:
List jewelry box
List ikea table
I'm starting to feel relieved to get rid of so much. Like a weight will be lifted. Once I get it all out of the apartment, of course. Right now I'm in the planning and sorting phase. The purging is coming soon. I'm so ducking psyched.
Last year when I went through another major reoccurring relapse, I spoke with multiple friends about how I want to get rid of everything I my own . It seemed a bitch rushed and not thought out . So I moved everything with me to this one bedroom apartment. Across the country to an apartment one fourth the size I live in now, I have to do some major reconsidering of the definition of "need" and "want."
I've never been good at letting go of things. I understand everything has a purpose, and throwing it out just makes me feel bad for the people who helped create or invent it. Like it somehow devalues their place in the world because I threw out some stupid pin or bit of glitter. Like I have to repurpose every last bit of something until its use has been used up
I still own far too many things, but the more seriously I can dwindle my wares over the next two weeks when I have time off, the less I'll have to pay to pack, load, and move across the country.
For once I feel like I'm taking things in the right direction!
Now, about what I'm gonna have to wear tomorrow....looks like I MAY have to do laundry sooner than I thought!
Wednesday, December 17, 2014
You Are Not Your Things
You are not your things.
This is been a somewhat difficult concept for me to grasp. Growing up not so rich, not so poor, our house was always fettered by bric-a-brac and knickknacks and things that I thought made the home feel cozy. As an adult, I see magazines full of museumlike homes, uncluttered by the nuances of tourist travels, dollar store gifts, impulse buys, and oddities picked up along the way. These are the homes that my ex-boyfriend wanted. This is not the home that I was raised in. I've been coming to terms with the reason WHY there was such a disparity between the "high-end" homes on HGTV that I felt often lacked charm and human touch and those that I fell burdened beneath hundreds of tchotchkes.
Tis true that media sells largely to 19-24 year-olds who yearn for adulthood, buttressed by Windows treatments and white-washed driftwood headboards. the latest palette of sea-gray swatches, and mixed naval-inspired patterns to make whatever was hip episode years ago in design feel "fresh" again. Retro vintage hip modern. With muted "tomato and avocado" now called "blood orange and olive" to erase the hatred of the our parents' design choices or whatever elder generation decorated roof to shag carpet, feeling as hip and happy as the summer's day.
And now we're onto antlers painted gold and all the neutral colors. Good God. All the antlers and owls. What IS it with wildlife?!?And no longer gold but copper. Don't forget silver was before gold. And bronze before that. Soon brushed bronze will be back and probably even nickel and brass at some point in the next 15 years. Nothing is more valuable than an epic time stamp on the value of your ideas.
To buy. Make. Sell. Tear down. Repeat.
But never shown are the 34-year-olds, crippled by tens of thousands of dollars of student loans, making less than they made out of undergraduate now they are at Masters level, who are in the process of disowning 90% of their homes for tinier parcels of plots, all to start anew. This is my story. Sorting through piles and piles of....THINGS. Decor, crafts, books, hobbies, bits and bobs of what I thought made life comfortable.
This isn't the American life that I was led to believe in. But here am ... Smack dab in the middle of yet another existential crisis on the heels of a failed relationship.
I've always understood the beast that was the American nightmare--misled to place emphasis on the scurrying of minds burdened by the acceptance of one's mortality. It is easy to forget how much intangible, non-purchased things matter and how little everything from your nearest store matters when you're wrapped up in some Real Housewife fighting another drunken housewife about forgetting to invite her to a birthday party. When time is spent arguing semantics instead of taking action to ensure justice, equality, and fairness is dealt to all persons. Because that is the whole jig, right?
It's long been time for an American uprising, but many of us, myself included, were too busy worrying about which Le Creuset color of Dutch oven to purchase. (My answer: whichever is on sale and a knock off.) Now people complacent with selecting from 50 finishes of toilet paper holders are having to remove their noses from the latest Martha Stewart to engage in self-reflection of a deeper sort....specifically those OUTSIDE themselves.
Because every few decades, the people at the bottom get grumpy and hungry.
We Americans are in the business of selling the idea of a thing . The whole idea behind everything is to find comfort in a uncomfortable world---I mean we are so restless about this hunger for "comfortable living" that silence forms a constant ick in our gut. Because in silence we hear doubts--those sneaking suspicions that we aren't genuine or truly accepted and loved and revered until we buy that 2000 square foot house in the burbs with 2.4 kids, two cars, and the whole Gap department in our closets and can keep up with those people on Facebook who appear to be Having It All. The times of their lives.
No struggle. No "I wonder if I can afford this indulgence of McDonald's or if it'll default my bank account." Nope. These people are Winning. They have posted the most adorable engagement photos. He's even willing to hold some stupid fucking chalkboard that says some stupid fucking thing for her in some fucking field off a highway that you can't see behind the photographer at a rest stop.
And then the wedding pictures. Oh god. The fucking wedding pictures are 10X better/worse. And then the ultrasound pics and the pics of the babies in month-labeled onesies. Next will be Ann Taylor and a set of golf clubs. Private school for the kids. Lacrosse for the boy, debate for the daughter. Ivy League Colleges. A 9-5 job with your dad's buddy's office. Your very own car. A condo and a drinking habit. Some strippers when you get a little wild. A DUI wiped clean because you're white and a stock broker. And boom.
40. Same sad office. Nice suits. No merit or power to fight the spinning of the neverending wheel. Because that's the thing about life. It's all of everything you can make it.
You most likely will make within 15% of your parents' incomes. If you're lucky, that'll be 15% higher. And you still end up kicking the bucket someday.
So you make the "most" of it today. And publicize it on social media and hope that everyone agrees that you are the most beautiful, intelligent, talented person they know. Because if not....well then, fuck. You must have done something wrong to deserve any dislike.
And being dislikes is apparently the worst thing in the world? Well, next to picking the wrong shade of sea shell blue or whatever for your powder room.
So we flip-flop between caring about All The Things and the Things That Own Us. Back and forth, we see-saw.
And right now I've tipped the scales back toward hating all the Things That Own Me and back toward unfettering my living. Because FUCK.... all I ever wanted was a goddamn white-washed driftwood headboard. And a warm body in my bed to wake up and fall asleep next to. And a goddamn dish of rocks stolen from places my heart shrank or grew, morphed a bit that day.
You are not your things. Your things don't define you.
Your grit, your will, your talent, your skill, your intuition...those are the things that do.
This is been a somewhat difficult concept for me to grasp. Growing up not so rich, not so poor, our house was always fettered by bric-a-brac and knickknacks and things that I thought made the home feel cozy. As an adult, I see magazines full of museumlike homes, uncluttered by the nuances of tourist travels, dollar store gifts, impulse buys, and oddities picked up along the way. These are the homes that my ex-boyfriend wanted. This is not the home that I was raised in. I've been coming to terms with the reason WHY there was such a disparity between the "high-end" homes on HGTV that I felt often lacked charm and human touch and those that I fell burdened beneath hundreds of tchotchkes.
Tis true that media sells largely to 19-24 year-olds who yearn for adulthood, buttressed by Windows treatments and white-washed driftwood headboards. the latest palette of sea-gray swatches, and mixed naval-inspired patterns to make whatever was hip episode years ago in design feel "fresh" again. Retro vintage hip modern. With muted "tomato and avocado" now called "blood orange and olive" to erase the hatred of the our parents' design choices or whatever elder generation decorated roof to shag carpet, feeling as hip and happy as the summer's day.
And now we're onto antlers painted gold and all the neutral colors. Good God. All the antlers and owls. What IS it with wildlife?!?And no longer gold but copper. Don't forget silver was before gold. And bronze before that. Soon brushed bronze will be back and probably even nickel and brass at some point in the next 15 years. Nothing is more valuable than an epic time stamp on the value of your ideas.
To buy. Make. Sell. Tear down. Repeat.
But never shown are the 34-year-olds, crippled by tens of thousands of dollars of student loans, making less than they made out of undergraduate now they are at Masters level, who are in the process of disowning 90% of their homes for tinier parcels of plots, all to start anew. This is my story. Sorting through piles and piles of....THINGS. Decor, crafts, books, hobbies, bits and bobs of what I thought made life comfortable.
This isn't the American life that I was led to believe in. But here am ... Smack dab in the middle of yet another existential crisis on the heels of a failed relationship.
I've always understood the beast that was the American nightmare--misled to place emphasis on the scurrying of minds burdened by the acceptance of one's mortality. It is easy to forget how much intangible, non-purchased things matter and how little everything from your nearest store matters when you're wrapped up in some Real Housewife fighting another drunken housewife about forgetting to invite her to a birthday party. When time is spent arguing semantics instead of taking action to ensure justice, equality, and fairness is dealt to all persons. Because that is the whole jig, right?
It's long been time for an American uprising, but many of us, myself included, were too busy worrying about which Le Creuset color of Dutch oven to purchase. (My answer: whichever is on sale and a knock off.) Now people complacent with selecting from 50 finishes of toilet paper holders are having to remove their noses from the latest Martha Stewart to engage in self-reflection of a deeper sort....specifically those OUTSIDE themselves.
Because every few decades, the people at the bottom get grumpy and hungry.
We Americans are in the business of selling the idea of a thing . The whole idea behind everything is to find comfort in a uncomfortable world---I mean we are so restless about this hunger for "comfortable living" that silence forms a constant ick in our gut. Because in silence we hear doubts--those sneaking suspicions that we aren't genuine or truly accepted and loved and revered until we buy that 2000 square foot house in the burbs with 2.4 kids, two cars, and the whole Gap department in our closets and can keep up with those people on Facebook who appear to be Having It All. The times of their lives.
No struggle. No "I wonder if I can afford this indulgence of McDonald's or if it'll default my bank account." Nope. These people are Winning. They have posted the most adorable engagement photos. He's even willing to hold some stupid fucking chalkboard that says some stupid fucking thing for her in some fucking field off a highway that you can't see behind the photographer at a rest stop.
And then the wedding pictures. Oh god. The fucking wedding pictures are 10X better/worse. And then the ultrasound pics and the pics of the babies in month-labeled onesies. Next will be Ann Taylor and a set of golf clubs. Private school for the kids. Lacrosse for the boy, debate for the daughter. Ivy League Colleges. A 9-5 job with your dad's buddy's office. Your very own car. A condo and a drinking habit. Some strippers when you get a little wild. A DUI wiped clean because you're white and a stock broker. And boom.
40. Same sad office. Nice suits. No merit or power to fight the spinning of the neverending wheel. Because that's the thing about life. It's all of everything you can make it.
You most likely will make within 15% of your parents' incomes. If you're lucky, that'll be 15% higher. And you still end up kicking the bucket someday.
So you make the "most" of it today. And publicize it on social media and hope that everyone agrees that you are the most beautiful, intelligent, talented person they know. Because if not....well then, fuck. You must have done something wrong to deserve any dislike.
And being dislikes is apparently the worst thing in the world? Well, next to picking the wrong shade of sea shell blue or whatever for your powder room.
So we flip-flop between caring about All The Things and the Things That Own Us. Back and forth, we see-saw.
And right now I've tipped the scales back toward hating all the Things That Own Me and back toward unfettering my living. Because FUCK.... all I ever wanted was a goddamn white-washed driftwood headboard. And a warm body in my bed to wake up and fall asleep next to. And a goddamn dish of rocks stolen from places my heart shrank or grew, morphed a bit that day.
You are not your things. Your things don't define you.
Your grit, your will, your talent, your skill, your intuition...those are the things that do.
Sunday, December 14, 2014
Plan B
Two nights ago, I dreamed I moved to Seattle and became involved in the sex club scene and somehow became a dominatrix at a terrible beat-up little strip mall/old rustic barn place.
And I woke up thinking about how I never want to have sex or date ever again. Old Kerry used to get drunk and sleep with the first guy I could at the bar. New Kerry drinks wine at home alone and sometimes cries and has zero interest in sex or dating or any of that bullshit.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that I've never been in this situation before. Where I'm two months out and pretty much still crazy in love with the guy. The only thing that's helped me love on is knowing he could have been better to me. I could have too, so it's not much, but it's all I have.
I guess I kind of want to know that he's tortured also.....like he just didn't walk away easily from this. I don't know what exactly that will do, but maybe it will make me feel a little bit better knowing he's hurting too. Because if he's not, then I just feel foolish. Like I was madly in love with someone who couldn't give a fuck about me.
I've been thinking lately about all the times we got together. And every time we got together, I flung myself at him. He may have been the one to make the move, but I always chased him with open arms, screaming, "LOVE ME! LOVE ME! LOVE ME!"
He never chased me. And looking back on that, I should have guessed he'd never pick me. Because he never had before. I was always just kinda there. Like, plan B.
No one should ever be anyone's plan B. Or feel like it at least.
And these revelations are slowly getting me to step out of love and into self-preservation. And a few steps closer to Seattle.
And I woke up thinking about how I never want to have sex or date ever again. Old Kerry used to get drunk and sleep with the first guy I could at the bar. New Kerry drinks wine at home alone and sometimes cries and has zero interest in sex or dating or any of that bullshit.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that I've never been in this situation before. Where I'm two months out and pretty much still crazy in love with the guy. The only thing that's helped me love on is knowing he could have been better to me. I could have too, so it's not much, but it's all I have.
I guess I kind of want to know that he's tortured also.....like he just didn't walk away easily from this. I don't know what exactly that will do, but maybe it will make me feel a little bit better knowing he's hurting too. Because if he's not, then I just feel foolish. Like I was madly in love with someone who couldn't give a fuck about me.
I've been thinking lately about all the times we got together. And every time we got together, I flung myself at him. He may have been the one to make the move, but I always chased him with open arms, screaming, "LOVE ME! LOVE ME! LOVE ME!"
He never chased me. And looking back on that, I should have guessed he'd never pick me. Because he never had before. I was always just kinda there. Like, plan B.
No one should ever be anyone's plan B. Or feel like it at least.
And these revelations are slowly getting me to step out of love and into self-preservation. And a few steps closer to Seattle.
Let It Take You
That moment when you think you can take it all and you find yourself slumped against a random wall in your apartment, eyes, welled with tears, for the omission of the future everythings.
And then in your head, the songs play. The songs play. The songs play. That one song plays.
Imagination begat dancers in leotards dark, and light,
and pointe and modern and flat and round.
Try to fill all the space in the ribs with familiarity and nuance.
And omission is flitted away.
Just let it take you.
Just let it take you.
Just let it take you.
All under its skin. In its skin. Within its veins. Find another normal.
Find another place to entrench roots. To weigh encumbrances.
To feel all the things and source them out in parcels of breath and giggles and handshakes.
And forgetful almosts never accomplished.
Because energy and focus and attention and right now....
Just let it all fall where it lay.
And then in your head, the songs play. The songs play. The songs play. That one song plays.
Imagination begat dancers in leotards dark, and light,
and pointe and modern and flat and round.
Try to fill all the space in the ribs with familiarity and nuance.
And omission is flitted away.
Just let it take you.
Just let it take you.
Just let it take you.
All under its skin. In its skin. Within its veins. Find another normal.
Find another place to entrench roots. To weigh encumbrances.
To feel all the things and source them out in parcels of breath and giggles and handshakes.
And forgetful almosts never accomplished.
Because energy and focus and attention and right now....
Just let it all fall where it lay.
Tuesday, December 9, 2014
IT WILL NOT ALWAYS BE LIKE THIS.
I went to the gym last night for an hour and a half and could have stayed another half hour. I forgot how nice it is to work out and sweat....and I mean, reeeeeeeeeeeeally sweat.
After seeing more pictures of me running, it's painfully obvious that I need to lose 20 lbs. I'm over seeing pictures of me where I'm disgusted with myself. I know I'm stronger than I was before I started on my healthy journey, and it wasn't ever REALLY about being skinny, but heeeeyyyylllll. Yeah yeah and I have curves (or curve...whatever), but I don't understand how this body of mine is mine some days.
I'm bored-hungry all the time. I need more protein, but protein requires effort! And I'm barely able to cook for myself without crying bc I have to eat alone.
So more working out and eating soup and veggies and coffee and less cheese and wine and Triscuits. It usually helps me sleep better, but not last night...
After seeing more pictures of me running, it's painfully obvious that I need to lose 20 lbs. I'm over seeing pictures of me where I'm disgusted with myself. I know I'm stronger than I was before I started on my healthy journey, and it wasn't ever REALLY about being skinny, but heeeeyyyylllll. Yeah yeah and I have curves (or curve...whatever), but I don't understand how this body of mine is mine some days.
I'm bored-hungry all the time. I need more protein, but protein requires effort! And I'm barely able to cook for myself without crying bc I have to eat alone.
So more working out and eating soup and veggies and coffee and less cheese and wine and Triscuits. It usually helps me sleep better, but not last night...
Intermission: had a nightmare last night that my favorite cat fell a few flights and broke her legs and was lying there in pain and the 911-for-animals-phone-line wasn't working and no one would let me take her to the doctor (they started swarming me as I was hysterically crying), and I was trapped inside a Republican Embassy and couldn't find my way out to take her to the vet.
Then I woke up to "someone" 🐈having puked in my bed. And a -$230 bank account. And no Nick. And I just kinda want to die.
I emptied my change bowl that Nick and I filled up for a "trip somewhere in Europe in two years" so that I could go buy Zyrtec and fill up my car. Because literally pouring out my dreams of a European pub tour with my love to replace them with the necessity of over-the-counter medications and some stupid dinosaur juice to fill my stupid car so I can drive to my stupid job so I can make money to buy stupid things so I don't feel lonely---yes, that was totally on my list of SHIT I NEVER WANT TO DO.
Every morning I wake up and he's not here is this....over and over again. In tiny incremental heart-ripping-out moments. Like slivers of splinters burrowing under your skin one second at a time. Just waiting until I snap.
Life will get better. It has to. One day, I won't start crying driving home to an empty house. One day, this whole three years will feel like a blip in my life. And all this is but a scratch, a scratch.
Every morning I wake up and he's not here is this....over and over again. In tiny incremental heart-ripping-out moments. Like slivers of splinters burrowing under your skin one second at a time. Just waiting until I snap.
Life will get better. It has to. One day, I won't start crying driving home to an empty house. One day, this whole three years will feel like a blip in my life. And all this is but a scratch, a scratch.
IT WILL NOT ALWAYS BE LIKE THIS. IT WILL NOT ALWAYS BE LIKE THIS. IT WILL NOT ALWAYS BE LIKE THIS.
Just need to focus my energies back on the areas it will pay the most dividends. Night y'all!
Thursday, December 4, 2014
Thanks, stupid brain!
I just woke up from a dream where I met him at the library and he leaned over and kissed me. It was so real.
Stupid, stupid brain...
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
AD FAIL.
Maybe I was too preoccupied by what I thought was domestic bliss to notice how fucking annoying commercials around the holidays are. Because Single-and-Hating-It Kerry is New York pissed.
Can I pleeeeeeeeeeeeease watch a few episodes of New Girl and Mindy Project without seeing 14 engagement commercials? All these ads for Zales and Fey and Jarod and stupid jewelry stores just makes me wanna puke.
Can I pleeeeeeeeeeeeease watch a few episodes of New Girl and Mindy Project without seeing 14 engagement commercials? All these ads for Zales and Fey and Jarod and stupid jewelry stores just makes me wanna puke.
I get it. I wanted a ring. Real bad. But it could have been a lunk of plastic for all I gave a shit. It wasn't the material of the ring that mattered, but the the concept behind it. You know, the whole infinity and beyond bullshit that I gobbled up.
Of course, it appears I was the only one hungry for such a feast...at least in my relationship. But maybe there's thousands of men watching these shows with their girlfriends when the gf sees the ad, gets that glimmer in her eyes, and turns to them and gets all, "Teeeheeee!!!! I wonder if he's gonna get me a ring for Christmas?!?!" And maybe those dudes don't recoil in horror.
Of course, it appears I was the only one hungry for such a feast...at least in my relationship. But maybe there's thousands of men watching these shows with their girlfriends when the gf sees the ad, gets that glimmer in her eyes, and turns to them and gets all, "Teeeheeee!!!! I wonder if he's gonna get me a ring for Christmas?!?!" And maybe those dudes don't recoil in horror.
Maybe I was that blissfully dumb as in love. I mean, I know I was. Now I'm gritting my teeth through stories of shiny new happy couples and seeing hand-holding strangers on the street. The only thing that makes me not run them over with my car in a rage is knowing that I was that shit-eating-happy a little bit ago, and maybe they'll be crushed like I am in a few months.
Yes. I AM THAT BITTER.
Yes. I AM THAT BITTER.
Also, the Great Pumpkin, aka the Toaster, aka my orange Element needs to get me out west and I have no money for jail or tickets or deductibles. Happy little thoughts.
Now I'm trying to focus my efforts elsewhere and do that whole "put it out to the universe and see what happens" shit. I've told friends, family, coworkers, and now bosses that I'm moving to Seattle as soon as I get offered a job. Just like the more people I told about my half-marathon and triathlon, the more I realized I couldn't back out.
I guess that means I'm gonna make this happen. I'm going to get a job, get rid of all the shit I've wasted my money on over the past 10 years, and move me and my three cats to a studio in Seattle. Work a couple jobs. Save money. Save the world through my ability to write instructions and manage documents. And save hella money and adopt a baby.
Well, not for at least five years. Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive years of living in a studio with three cats. THREEEEEEE CAAAAAATS. 🐈🐈🐈 if that's not sacrifice for love, I don't know what is. And I don't even have the kid yet. It's probably not even a twinkle in someone's eye yet! Anyway....
I wish I wasn't the kind of person who made plans--who could be more whimsical and live in the moment. Who didn't spend hours upon hours daydreaming about my future. But if I don't plan, then I won't do. And with my history of depression, I've found that keeping moving helps me not get "stuck." I have to commit to something, make it public, and then I'll do it.
But Ihaven't had such good luck following through with getting married and growing my family (okay 1-2 kids would be enough). Namely because most of my plans relied on someone else, and I had such clear fantastic visions of a future that I somehow forget to confirm with the other party. Everything I want to do that is solely reliant on my I do. My friend pointed out I have grit, and I am (after 22 years of therapy) starting to believe it. Starting to believe I'm pretty fucking cool.
But I still ignored warning signs and was wrecked by this break-up. I hate feeling foolish and off-base. Like I completely missed something. I knew things weren't great, but I thought it was a phase, a hiccup, a rough patch. I thought we'd talk through things, and keep hanging on until the dust settled again. Relationships are work, and I just thought we'd exited the hone mood period and finally got to the meat of digging deep and sorting through our feelings. Being truly honest about our feelings and doing the real work that ties people together.
I've spent the better part of the past three years making plans for Our Future, and I just a feel like a traitor to my own thoughts, to my own plans now that they don't have Him in them. I guess this'll take some getting used to again. Planning for Myself instead of Us.
At least I know I can count on myself to come through in the clutch.
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