I once had a journalism professor—a famous, bloated wound of a man who harvested cliches and sprinkled them like fresh grown wisdom—relish in telling his classes that the cure for writer's block was writing.
And yet, like all the best advice, it's the simplicity that makes the task so daunting. We (and yes, I'm dragging the general public into this) believe that there's got to be some other secret, a magic key that only reveals itself to the recipient at some opportune moment. There's a magical combination of words, or a ritual performed under the right moon, or even just the fallback of knowing the right person to make things true.
Some of those have a kernel of truth. After all, I do firmly believe you have to toss spilled salt over you shoulder. Rituals have weight.
But results come from action.
Last year, I lost weight and got healthier by exercising. At least thirty minutes a day, five days a week. No shakes, no programs, and I didn't count calories (though I know that's worked for others). I just did it. No exceptions. Not even at full capacity every day. The action mattered.
This applies to everything, absolutely everything, we want from life. Take any of my artistic ambitions. I don't know why it's taken me almost thirty years, much of which was spent editing the work of other writers, to realize that writers are people who write. I won't suddenly have more time. I won't suddenly have better ideas. I have to write. I have to put in the work.
The past six months, I've written when my students write. I've given myself dialogue challenges. I've created characters. I've written fantasy and mystery and dystopia. Most are trash. Some are...intriguing. A few characters have stuck with me, and always the ones I discovered as I freely wrote.
I'm writing. And I can see a future, a misty-edged vision of morning pages and filled notebooks. I just need to do the work.
I was raised a sheltered kid. I listened to a capella jamz (ugh) and showtunes. In high school I "rebelled" against that upbringing by listening to classic rock and only classic rock. If the band had a hit in the past twenty years, I wasn't interested. In college, I became immersed in the local band scene, and naturally grew into an indie rock chick, black-framed glasses and cardigans and all.
Which is all to say—I didn't know the music of my youth. I'm pretty sure grunge was banned in Davis County. Apparently a few counties over accidentally booked Rage Against the Machine once, and that is still the terrifying stuff of local legend.
Chris Cornell first consciously entered my brain when I was 20. I sat on a couch in Provo with two boys that I loved, loved at different times and the same time.* We watched skatevideos and "Like a Stone."
I was not a rocker at that time—the hardest music I listened to was The White Stripes—but I was immediately drawn in by Cornell's voice. I'd later learn to appreciate Morello's guitar skills, but the sheer melancholy of Cornell's singing floored me. I watched that video and saw and heard true despair. I didn't know a voice could rock while carrying that level of sincere emotion.
A few months later, I made a new friend. The first time we hung out we had a massive music swap, where I foisted Andrew Bird and Rilo Kiley on his iTunes. In turn, he filled a USB with all the 90s music I missed. He gave me entire catalogs of Audioslave and Temple of the Dog and Soundgarden. He told me to listen to Superunknown, that it was an album everybody should experience.** When I got home that night I turned it on. My bud Ashley came in and said, and I quote, "This is not Cat music."
No. It wasn't. But even I couldn't resist blasting "4th of July" at full capacity, because that song was magic.
That new friend who gave me Soundgarden? His name was Taylor McCarrey. I soon saw the beauty in his childhood music, fully embracing those 90s guitars. When we were still dating, we moved to Seattle. He was depressed. I was frustrated. We both experienced some extreme growing pains that summer. We visited Volunteer Park, and I felt a kinship with the "Black Hole Sun."
I'd never put Chris Cornell or any of his projects in my top lists when it comes to music, but I can't deny that he has had an indelible effect on my life. My sorrow at his passing blindsided me. His voice was there during the most pivotal times. Its raw emotion still haunts me. There's something warm and unnerving about the edge, that soft blanket lined with sandpaper. I can't shake it, and I wouldn't want to.
*It was as dramatic and painful and beautiful as it sounds.
**He also said the same about Stone Temple Pilot's Purple and Songs for the Deaf by Queens of the Stone Age. What can I say, my husband is a wise man.
"If I don't do it, it's just more work for someone else. So it's like, well, I have no other option. Why should I even talk to her? It won't change anything. It will just cause this... friction. So I just need to do it."
It's been quite the couple of years, hasn't it, church? I have not had the happiest time being a Mormon. First there was the women thing, and the excommunication stuff, and then (oh, and then) the big policy reveal. And my heart ached, and I cried, and I stayed and stayed and stayed.
And I'm still staying, just to get that out of the way. No danger of abandonment yet.
Lately the struggle hasn't been the anger or the hurt, or the beautiful wrestling before God. Lately, I've been struggling with the nothing.
No emotion. No connection. No spirituality.
It's been consumed with the never-ending motions of the every day: the go-go-go to work, the go-go-go to spend time with my daughter, the go-go-go- to do housework and cook meals and lesson plan and get sleep so I can function. And oh yes, the barest of go-go-go to fulfill my church calling. The barest, and yet it's enough to make me dread those three hours every Sunday.
I'm in the Primary Presidency, and I spend the first hour stewing over sharing times and other undone administrative tasks, simmering in all my inadequacies. I spend sacrament meeting, that one hour where I could learn of God, consumed by the things I have to do and have not done. I spend the following two hours doing those things, those teaching and organization tasks that are so close to what I do during the week, but worse because it's with small children. I go home exhausted, wondering when restoration will come.
Where is space for the divine? If I don't get to recharge at church, how can I find space to do it myself?
I whine about the culture of the church a lot. My struggle with the Utah ideals I grew up with dominates my therapy sessions. A huge target of disgust is the idea of sanctification through suffering—how the more we sacrifice in silence, the better a person we are. It's pervasive. Good Mormons sit in silence and suffer through. We put our shoulder to the wheel.
But what if the wheel crushes us?
I talked to my therapist about what I can do with my calling. It seemed an impossible situation. I am called, and so I have to do it. What other option is there? Besides, the primary president has done so much for me, and I don't want to seem ungrateful.
In the middle of listing all the things the president has done for me, and the little I've done in return, my therapist said, "If she didn't want to do those things, she'd say so. That's what people do—they share emotions, they let you know if something's unpleasant or part of a bargain."
"Not where I grew up," I said. Cue lightning bolt.
Oh. I grew up seeing people, particularly women, serve and give of themselves far past the point of enjoyment, and often to the point of silent resentment. Usually that resentment would bubble up, siphon itself out on people. People, but never the person responsible. There wasn't direct conversation. There were clouds of anger, falsity, and a pervasive air of distrust. People wallowed in insincerity because everything was an angry, holy sacrifice. We were the sacred martyrs. Our suffering brings us close to God, even if we sink into personal despair.
And there I was, expecting the same from myself.
I don't have issues setting boundaries and expectations in any other setting. But church? Boundaries shouldn't exist. And although I give good lip service to defying that culture, I find it's unexpectedly buried deep. It's tightly woven into the fiber of my being.
Driving away from therapy, full of solutions and new resolve to be the change I want to see in the church, Andrew Bird's Are You Serious? played on my stereo.* The song "Truth Lies Low" began, and Bird's mellow voice resonated:
Here's a little game, you can play along
Oh you do the walk of shame
From the comfort of your home.
So here's another game, you can play along,
Where you empty all your blame
From your guilty bones.**
Album version here for better sound quality and less song-building.
I don't have to sacrifice. It's not worth my happiness, my sanity, my testimony. Yes, I can do it for now, but it's OK to say I can't do it forever. And it's OK to let people know I'm not happy—if I don't tell them, how will they know?
It's OK.
I don't have to walk in shame. There's nothing redeemable about guilt,
*Side note: this album is FANTASTIC. It's his latest, and finally managed to convert my husband to Andrew Bird. Listening to "Valleys of the Young" as new parents was a mind-altering experience.
**I can acknowledge that Bird probably did not mean to write about people tortuing themselves with guilt and self-loathing (especially considering the last verse referencing what sound like trolls), but that's the beauty of lyrics--it just takes one line at one moment to become part of a person's unique experience forever.
The night begs for writing. Pleads with me, using every little bit of angst and atmosphere to wrench words from my wrists.
What's the magic formula? One part dim lighting, a dash of intentionally obtuse and heart-wrenching literature, accompanied by vinyl warmth of that album I never connected with but now finally understand.
Every time I am responsible for moving the needle to the beginning of an album, rather than relying on the automatic start feature, I cut off several seconds of the song. I'm starting to appreciate the sudden nature of that facet/ Each time I play songs it's a different experience, depending on where I start.
I am afraid to use "is" when I write. Thanks, grad school! I am also afraid to use "I," but clearly that fear does not control my life.
Life rolls along. I'm listening to more music again. It reminds me of myself, the person I was, connected with who I am now. Each new CD (yes, CD) is a reclamation of sorts, building me back up and stronger than ever, one puzzle piece at a time. The pieces are forged from security, from the ideal melding of dreams, and from the grapplings of adult sorrow. Somehow, those piece are even stronger, the forge heat forcing resilience.
I love Seattle. This deep satisfaction terrifies me. I'm waiting for the next big tragedy. It's not hard to guess what it will probably be, but even that seems manageable. What unknown horrors lurk? Things can't actually be this good.
Or maybe they can. Maybe life can be all sunsets out the window.
This song is fall 2007. My best friend had given me Pinkerton. Sometime after the album gifting, we had what I'll awkwardly call physical contact (NIGHTS OF INTENSE HAND-HOLDING!). During the following four weeks of our non-relationship, I watched this video over and over and over and over, volume up to eleven in my sad little hermity room. Oh, I'd be so good for you, and you'd be good for me.
A month after first contact (is that copyrighted? Somebody get Roddenberry on the line!), my friend asked me if we could go back to that, to just friends. I smiled and said yes. Two minutes later I drove down the street, passing his car while secretly blasting "Song for the Dumped." Freshman Cat was as classy as shut-your-mouth. At one point, our cars were next to each other. I smiled, one of those over-enthusiastic smiles that every girl has, the smile that shows no, you're totally fine, aw you're so nice, everything is happy and sunshine. We exchanged waves. Meanwhile, my toe was tapping the "give me my money back" beat on the brake pedal.
It all worked out in the end. We didn't talk for a year and a half, then after a chance meeting in the Wilkinson Center we picked up right on our friend path (with only the occasional moment of uncomfortable sexual tension). Now we are both married. We talk occasionally. It's all copacetic.
Except, in all truthfulness, one of my greatest moments of personal shame revolves around this guy. For the record, hey Andy. I'm sorry about the Sufjan concert. I was a major jerkwad.
I had a point when I started typing, I swear. Not much of one, but a point.
I miss blogging. Not my personal blogging, mind you, but that era. The rule of the blog, when everyone had some little corner of the Internet. It wasn't as raw as LiveJournal—no, what could be?—but it had the same confessional, glimpse-behind-the-curtain effect. When you became friends with someone on Facebook, you'd check for the blog link, and over half the time there was something there. It was my chance to check out the psyche of the dudes I had crushes on. To judge their grammar. To peek at their music tastes. To roll my eyes at unabashed churchiness. To gawp at artistic talent. There was a thrill of excitement when new friends (and "special" friends) became followers on the blog.
Essentially, I miss being able to read honest stories about the people I liked/found interesting/respected.
Part of me wonders—was there really this short timespan where people were writing freely? Was there actually an embarrassment of riches in blogland? Or, like everything, did it just feel new and special because I was eighteen and everything was new and special? Do those connections still exist, and are they just called Twitter and Instagram?
I still listen to Weezer more often than not.* I'm pretty painfully unhip now. My last concert was the Stone Temple Pilots with lead vocals by Chester Bennington (weird crowd, good show, and made me feel like an aging grunge fan in the worst way)(particularly odd considering I wasn't an original grunge fan, it's a new development thanks to That Man I Live With and Married, so this onetime indie chick is now just the mainstream of twenty years ago). I find myself gravitating towards the bands I listened to in college, all of five years ago, back when I was cool. Just leave me in my enclave with Ben Gibbard and Jenny Lewis and Rivers. We're good here.
It doesn't help that I lost my entire iTunes library in 2012. Now my beloved 160GB iPod Classic is a relic, a musical time capsule of my tastes. Nothing goes on for fear of losing what I have. When it dies, I will mourn. I will also forget well over 70% of the music I once owned.
Also, what do the kids listen to these days? Robot music, right?
But back to the point, why did blogging die? If people maintain blogs nowadays, it's designed and photo-heavy and "curated" (gag) to death. The words are gone. As a words person, I weep. I weep for honesty.
Look at that sidebar, will you. Lists of names, links that date back years. All empty houses on the Internet. Abandoned buildings. And here I am, occasionally donning my explorer cap and poking in, willing there to be something different, something new.
In the true spirit of college Cat, I wrote this while procrastinating other writings. Real writings, for real places, because I'm a real person now. It doesn't feel the way I thought it would.
Welp. Better get back to it.
*Especially since their latest album, Everything Will Be Alright in the End, was seriously amazing. Best since Pinkerton, and that's coming from someone who actually liked "Hash Pipe" andMake Believeand went on record with favorable reviews of the Red Album. Please, please, everyone. Listen to EWBAITE. It's Rivers at his angry best (and even sweeter for us, the audience, being the subject of his wrath. Jilted Rivers is the best Rivers).
Being the nostalgia slave that I am—and trust me, with my pack rat ways and my love of anything tinged with melancholic atmosphere, I am a slave to the nostalgia—I sometimes enjoy going back through past notebooks. During college, I would use the back pages of my notebooks to scribble less-than-stellar poetry/lyrics, angsty paragraphs about the state of my relationships at the time, and quick rants about my classes. Today, in lieu of a freshly-written post, I present a sampling of notebook scribbles. These date between January and April 2011. This was a tumultuous time. It was my last on-campus semester of college, an experience I was ready to leave behind. I officially broke up with the boy my world revolved around. I started dating the man I would marry.
There was a lot going on.
Some of these quick writings are strangely prescient now. It's also odd to look back and see that even though I have completely changed, at the core my self, my views, and my experience remains the same.
I was so organized back in the day. Now I use smaller, soft-backed books. When I take notes at all. Heh.
CLIP ONE: ANGST. SUSPECTED DATE - JANUARY/FEBRUARY.
I am in a dark hole with dirt walls. There is a hint of sunshine above, but I can't be sure. All I know is that I want to get out of the hole. I start climbing the walls, grabbing fistfuls of earth and digging platforms, but instead of elevating me further it's burying me. My throat is closing, filling up with mud and gravel, and yet I'm still scrabbling away at the walls, desperate for some breath of air.
CLIP TWO: FRUSTRATION IN POETIC FORM. SUSPECTED DATE - MARCH.
He loves to play the martyr,
He loves to play the fool,
He loves to play the one that was abandoned, it's his rule.
He loves to play the slighted,
The one destined to lose,
The one....
CLIP THREE: PEOPLE ARE IDIOTS. SUSPECTED DATE - LATE JANUARY, PROBABLY THE 26th.
In one of my education classes this morning, we had a topical writing essay. The front of the class is littered with a heady array of composition books—gray, red, blue, marbled covers—each with a topic printed in Sharpie on the corner. I grabbed "TV" and scribbled away, waxing poetic about Bryan Fuller, Aaron Sorkin, and J.J. Abrams.
The trouble came when we exchanged books and responded to others. I was cornered by the girl I secretly refer to as "my nemesis." That girl who has to raise her hand and comment on everything, whether she is qualified to voice an opinion or not. The girl who spent the first five minutes of class quoting racist anti-Obama bumper stickers and dismissing the State of the Union as drivel. The girl who, after we responded to each other's writing, turned to me and smugly commented on how interesting it was that she chose reading and I chose TV, clearly implying that her choice made her intellectually superior. The girl who, after reading my ode to worthwhile TV, dismissed my arguments and points for quality TV shows and stated that she didn't like TV, that it "rots your brain," and as such should be condemned.
I just love people who live in a box and refuse to learn from others, don't you?
See, it just frustrated me that she so carelessly tossed aside television, because I think that certain shows can be incredibly stimulating, that some can raise intellectual debate and foster learning. And I don't like that some snot-faced brown-noser can waltz in and claim that her voracious reading of Jane Austen and fantasy makes her more intelligent than my watching "Dead Like Me" and "The West Wing." Because that is wrong. It's false.
CLIP FOUR: I SHOULD LISTEN TO MYSELF. DATED 4-24-11, MY 22nd BIRTHDAY.
Here's why I never would have made a good journalist—I want people to like me. That's what attracted me to the field. Meeting interesting people, talking, it all sounds great. Except for the part about asking questions. I'm too cautious to be curious. Shame, really.
Also—I suspect I am like Chuck Klosterman. My fiction is meticulous, labored, and overly self-conscious. Observation is my medium, and I should embrace it.
Yesterday marked a year since I pointed my beat-up red Dodge Stratus eastward and left Seattle for Boston.
The last time I saw the Space Needle
Taylor and I shipped out on a Monday morning. It was overcast, and a haze accompanied us as we drove down Aurora, passing by the Space Needle, the Market, and my terrible nemesis of a Ferris Wheel before getting on the 90. We wound through rain and mountains. After a couple of hours, green gave way to desert and sunshine. It was supposed to be an omen. It was supposed to signal a similar turning point in my life, a symbolic gesture of leaving behind the cobwebs and clouds of our prior life and bursting into the bright hope of an adult future. Real life, as it were.
Little did we know that those were the good times. The salad days.
Boston might have seemed a warmer climate from afar, but up close it's soul felt chilled to the bone.
And yet, after a year of pain and misery, it has thawed.
Yesterday the sun shone. It glinted off trees, leaves shimmering gold and green, sparkling in the light. I walked down roads I knew. Haunted areas that felt, if not like home, at least familiar. I had my bearings. I had my place.
My current path
Today that comfort was compounded by a beach trip, something that is interpreted quite differently on the East Coast. This beach was no Seattle shore, made of small rocks and mud. Instead, I welcomed warm white sand and blue waters. Salt-smelling grass and rocky monoliths perfect for scrambling over. It was beautiful. I talked with people. I interacted with the world, this once-cold Boston world, and felt at peace.
When the time comes I will not be sad to leave this place. But now, I can say I will miss it. At least I've got that.
You know, I think that apathy was the only thing that kept me sane. Through high school. Through college. And now the apathy is replaced with actual hard work, and sanity? Not so much.
When Taylor and I were preparing to come to Boston, it was with the giddy excitement of children waiting for Christmas. Look at all those brick buildings! Look at how palpable the history is! Look at the leaves, the seasons, the air, that crisp East Coast feeling we've created from books and songs and movies!
When we got to Boston, that blown-glass image shattered fairly quickly. The apartment full of light and hope wasn't ready for us when we got there, and instead we were greeted with paint cans and drop cloths and an infestation of crickets. We slept on an air mattress, dying in the heat, lost and confused in a city that was much further from our dream than we had realized.
That was two months ago, and while we've gotten our bearings a little, it's come at a cost. The autumnal spirit here is as beautiful as we imagined, but we can't enjoy it. School started quickly and fiercely, and my life has become a long line of T rides to the COM building and back to the little house in the suburbs, removed from the bustling, shining city of promise. Taylor's life I can only imagine, after spending a month in a ridiculously oppressive work environment, and now returned to long, empty days in a long, empty apartment.
There are days where I love Boston. Where I look at my "Why I Like it Here" list and feel calm, remembering the large rocks at my T station, the smushed, Irish-looking faces of Southies on the street, the bookstores and cobblestones and abundance of graveyards Downtown and in Cambridge, the trees that create tunnels of orange and red.
But far more often are the days when I think I won't ever stop hating myself for bringing us here.
Education is a terribly selfish thing. When I was doing my undergrad, I used my selfishness like a badge of honor. I would look at all those poor little engaged girls I knew with pity. They were squandering a prime opportunity in their life. When else would you have an excuse to just be concerned with yourself? When else can a person be wholly self-absorbed in their own learning and growth?
When I decided to go back to school, it was after I'd gotten married and had halfway tried on a career for size. It seemed like the time to do this. I had always wanted a masters, I felt like I had to give this writing thing a try, and it was now or never. Taylor was more supportive than I could imagine, pushing me to make this decision for me and for me alone, assuring me that he would follow me anywhere and that our family would flourish wherever I chose to go.
I don't think he knew what that was implying. I don't think either of us did.
He couldn't have seen the gut-wrenching loneliness that would occur. While we knew moving was hard--the first time we moved to Seattle almost destroyed us--I think we thought we had grown. We had each other now. We knew how to work as a team. We had qualifications and life would happen quickly. Ha. How naive.
Instead, I found myself regressing into the selfishness of schooling. This grad school experience was a chance to redeem myself as a student. It was a chance to finally push myself, to stop being lazy and see what happens when I exhaust all my potential. Even though I'm studenting better than ever, the extreme soul-crushing guilt that I inflict upon myself when I don't live up to the impossible standard I'm aiming for is incredibly destructive. It leads to a weariness and disappointment I couldn't have foreseen. And while I'm concentrating on how to school better, I can't ignore the fact that the house is in disarray, that I'm cooking dinner less, that I'm not being as caring and tender with Taylor's emotional needs.
Which makes me feel even worse. Thinking about what I've done to Taylor. I can't help but think about what life would be like if we stayed in Seattle. Seattle, the gloomy, wonderful jewel of a city that we idiotically couldn't get away from fast enough. If we were in Seattle right now, I would be teaching. And I would probably be loving it. If we were in Seattle, Taylor would have a job. He'd be able to practice, he'd have spent the past two months making money and ticking off licensure hours, each week coming closer to the dream he's harbored.
Instead, I took us away from financial and job security, and dragged us across the country, to a place that might be breaking us. That's a whole ton of guilt to be living with. The dream of Boston has shattered, and now I'm wondering how to make the pieces fit together again.
This Onion article* has it right. This week is yet another time where my country has been put through the wringer. Boston, my future town, in fear and upheaval. A city-wide lockdown. Rumors flying around, unsubstantiated claims. Talking to twenty sixth-graders about current events has proven the existence of mob mentality, has been the face of the vulture media, desperate to feed on the flesh of sensationalism. Might sound like overkill, but the amount of enjoyment these kids get out of telling a story that their uncle told them where this dark-skinned, accented guy was seen walking on rooftops and was taken into custody, well. That kind of makes me ill.
And it's not just the kids. It's the journalism this morning, the masses of people hankering for sound clips from estranged uncles and random classmates, touting high school students (who willingly say that they didn't know the suspects well!) as "friends of the suspects." Networks bringing in terrorism experts--experts who, to their credit, have been trying to diffuse any shocking Al Qaeda and jihadist claims--just so that they can dedicate hours to discussing this intense Islamic plot. It's more than depressing, it's frustrating.
Add that on top of events like the explosion at Waco, and the failure of the Senate to vote on gun control (not so much a because of the legislation not passing [even though come on], but because it exhibited the extent of our corrupt government, especially when you factor in quotes like this one from Richard Feldman), and you could say my faith in this nation has been shaken. Suddenly, this world isn't a complex sphere full of sorrow and happiness, it's just a straight up scary place.
So yeah. I spent most of this week feeling sad, and then indescribably angry, and now I'm just exhausted.
Just like the first article said, this week is done. I'm done.
As a collective, can we agree to sit on the couch, cry, and watch happy videos until the world goes away?
Sounds good to me.
*Incredibly strong language. Be ye warned, sensitive souls. But if you like, the Onion has rocked it with their coverage this week. Find all the Boston articles HERE.
I fought against doing a "year wrap up" post. And I'm not sure you can call this one, considering that January is halfway over. But after doing some kind of glance back for the past two years (2010 and 2011), I've decided I like the closure. I have always enjoyed looking at my yearly progression, and although the urge to look towards the past typically comes to me in the fall, the start of a new year is just too crisp and clear and convenient to resist.
Typically, I hate Christmas and December with the fury of five thousand burning meteors. Want proof? Try this article, written for my high school newspaper:
Behold, the cleverness of high school Cat.
That writing is so convincing I almost hate Christmas again. But not this year! This year was full of warmth and joy and muppets and happiness and the first real Christmas tree I've had in years. I even had a nephew in town to help decorate it. That seemed to start the holiday off right, and it just snowballed from there.
See what I did with the word "snowballed"? So holiday appropriate! And punny.
So final verdict: Good on ya, Christmas. I'll keep you around for now.
And now, a rundown of stuff I did in 2012:
Moved to Seattle. Fell in love with Seattle. Became very snooty about how awesome Seattle is.
GOT MARRIED. Yep, That's right. You can just go home everyone, I win. No one else did anything as impressive or monumental or as fulfilling of life as I have, now that I have my very own person trapped with me forever. Though, in all honesty, marriage is awesome and I highly recommend it.
Applied for a ton of jobs.
Was hired and worked at two different jobs: first as a tutor at a company that may or may not have made me racist, second at a private school that has helped me learn what I want to do with my life.
Rediscovered my love of cooking, especially in finding and trying out new recipes. Ask me about what I can do with a sweet potato.
Turned 23, going on 35. I still can't believe I'm that young.
Used my Batman lunchbox.
Watched waaaay too many Rifftrax. My favorites are this, this and this.
Went to Spiral Jetty FINALLY. And with some delightful Mary and Rosemary.
Had a dream vacation with Taylor, visiting family in New York, then hopping over to the Baltic's to see Taylor's mission in Latvia and Estonia, and rounding it all out with some time in St. Petersburg.
Started a new Thanksgiving tradition--watching The Crucible.
Read many, many comic books. My favorites are American Vampire, Batman: The Black Mirror (both by Scott Snyder), and Blankets by Craig Thompson.
Dyed my hair! And not just the couple streaks, like last year. The whole, entire head of hair a burgundy color. It's pretty hardcore--I look like I should be wearing black leather and hunting vampires. Which is one of my dream jobs, so I suppose it fits.
Decided to go to graduate school fall 2013.
It was a wonderful year. One of the best in recent memory. That's really all I have to say about that.
It's not a new year unless I make progress, and I want to track that progress. A few months ago, I had this epiphany. And I realized that the only thing preventing me from doing stuff is me. If I want to do something, I need to go ahead and do it. So that's my vague, overarching thing I want to work on. Be assertive. Get stuff done. There's nobody else to blame but me. But here are some concrete things I'd like to achieve this year. My "resolutions," if you're into that word (I, personally, am not).
1. Get published. I don't care if it's for a website or a weekly or what, but I want to submit my writing someplace and have other people publish it.
2. Get into grad school. Please oh please let this happen.
3. Stop eating the food in the faculty room.
4. Keep track of the media I consumed. Consume more media. This includes tracking my movies, TV shows, and books.
5. As part of the accountability for the above goal, I'm going to write reviews for every book I read. Every. Single. Book. Even the crappy, shameful YA books I sometimes read. If you want to follow along with this journey, check me out on Goodreads.
Crying is a much more accepted and typical part of life right now. This is not a comfortable fact. It's a strange type of growing pain, just far later in life than I thought it should be. Perhaps this is the phenomenon known as a "quarterlife crisis," only it shouldn't be. It's the regular adolescent trauma of self discovery, delayed by several years. Arrested development, if you will, but this time it's for reals and there's no Jason Bateman to be the calm voice of sanity.
Emotions have always been verboten to me. I eschewed them as a sign of the weakness I could not let myself show. I was the poster child for the wall-builder, constructing my safe little oasis bricked up tight within a corner of my heart I had forgotten existed. But the past few years I have been chiseling away at the grout, creating chinks then gaps then tearing down load-bearing beams. I can successfully say that I have gone from pure robot to someone capable of emotional health.
But the part they always skip with emotional health is the necessity of pain. Those walls were built to keep me from having to feel hurt or sad or even empathy. I was me, and everything rolled off like so much water on bird feathers, fluffed out to repel any drop. Since letting myself feel I have experienced life more sweetly, cherished moments and relationships I never thought possible. But along with that comes suffering. And that's what needs to happen. Being healthy means being OK with the hurt along with the joy. But it's difficult, especially when the pain chokes your chest and compresses your feelings. And that's this week. A week of pain and frustration.
A teacher perspective on the shootings on Connecticut.
I have never taught kids as young as my current students. Even though I am technically in "middle school," I am surrounded by children ages 10-12. Most of my time is spent around the 10 year olds, and I will not lie. It's... how to say this diplomatically?... not my favorite. My specialty is older students (who thankfully understand sarcasm and culture references), I didn't go into elementary education for a reason, and I often struggle with connecting with these young students, students who need more nurturing love and care and attention.
Today my fifth graders were practicing musical numbers for their play about the American Revolution. They sang jazzy tunes about taxation without representation while I read about how children had been shot, how an entire class was missing, how parents and teachers were trying to account for everyone. And I couldn't stop my breathing from becoming labored, couldn't stop the immediate watering of my eyes. Throughout the day, I tried to stay abreast of the news, but my reaction was the same every time. It wasn't until I came home late that afternoon and read the full story that I broke down. Alone in my living room, punctuated by Christmas lights and the glow of the computer screen, I heaved and sobbed and had the reaction I'd avoided for so long in my life.
I felt small. I felt hurt. I felt tired of this, the second violent incident in as many days. But I felt so grateful. Grateful that it wasn't my school, that it wasn't my students. Grateful for the realization that if that happened, I would do anything to protect my students--even the ones that drive me batty. I pray that I will never have to do anything like that. I pray that this can start dialogue, and that we can progress past bickering andstop this from happening. It's not a matter of no guns or more guns or right or left. It's a matter of changing something. A matter of regulation and accessibility--regulation of firearm use and accessibility of what the average citizen can attain. Regulation of mental health and accessibility for those who need care. And while I understand those who say this is not the time, I still feel the aching heart of the country, my own aching heart crying out for an end.
I guess you care what I'm wearing.
My mind was already wrung out before the shootings dumped on me. I've followed Mormon Child Bride, the blog of Stephanie Lauritzen (better know as She Who Started the Mormon Women Wearing Pants to Church Day), for a little over a year. I like it because she is snarky and honest and an English teacher, and we English teachers have to stick together. And while I have definitely not agreed with everything she's posted--not all the poems she shares are that awesome, and I don't struggle with not having the priesthood--I have understood that she was coming from a genuine place, and I've respected her journey for that.
I haven't officially identified as Feminist Mormon, but I refer to myself as such in my mind. I've lurked around the community, reading up on WAVE and FMH and so forth, and quietly formed my opinion on the matter. I wish I could post all I've read, but I worry that it would misconstrue my own thoughts on Mormon Feminism. Researching it has felt a lot like cherry-picking: yes, I agree with that one; oops, not quite that one; let's avoid this train of thought all together; oh yeah, I can totally get behind that! The only thoughts I've found that I totally agree with are here, and while that post links to some great stuff, I still want to stress that it's not a wholehearted alignment I feel. It's an understanding and kinship, one where I believe the spirit of the cause, if not the specifics, are just.
As far as this Sunday goes, no. I will not be wearing pants. But not because I think it's "ridiculous" or "evil" or "just those crazy feminists looking for an excuse to leave the church." In fact, for the record, I understand where they are coming from. Right now, the pants aren't to say 'let's have the priesthood' or 'let's be more casual.' It's an attempt to bring attention to the inequality in the church culture, and I support that. I would like to hear more from women in Sunday School and Sacrament Meetings. I do think there should be more women speaking in General Conference. I definitely think the Young Women program needs to be completely redone, and I do think that there should be more open discussion about the role of women beyond that of wife and mother. We are amazing. We are strong, We have a divine nature, worth, and capability that is greater than we are ever told. It isn't enough to just be told that we are righteous and blessed. A basic principle of education is modeling, Unless girls are told about and shown their potential and the many different facets it has, how will they learn self-respect?
Despite my sympathies for the movement, I will not wear pants. Partly because a piece of me does believe this event has the potential to undercut the sacred ordinance of the sacrament. Not necessarily intentionally (even though there are probably a couple women who are doing it in that spirit), but because the motion is created to cause upheaval, and I personally don't feel like I would feel comfortable doing it in that setting.
But a main reason for my discomfort is the choice of pants as a symbol. NOTE: I do not think there is anything inherently wrong in wearing pants to church, and I do think that it is more about the respect in presentation than anything else. I am far more offended when women wear foam flip-flops to church than when women wear pants. But in this particular case, holding up pants as a symbol of the masculine reign, shoving that particular gender dynamic in the face for awareness, well. That makes me uneasy.
My wrestle with feminism vs. femininity vs. what-have-you has been documented before, but I just want to reiterate. I am not in the camp where feminism means being equal with men which means being the same as men. I think that a large part of female strength and power comes in the differences. And not just in how we can have children--there's also the differences in social and emotional dynamics that set us apart and give us value.
But it took a while for me to get to that point. So much of my youth was spent believing that in order to be respected, I had to be unsexed. I couldn't be overly girly or feminine. I had to play by masculine rules--another reason for my detestation of the weakness of emotion while I was growing up. It wasn't until far too recently that I learned to embrace myself, curves and skirts and attractiveness and all.
How valuable it would have been if someone had told me that I could wear dresses and makeup without trading in my self-respect and ambition! I would have had such a great head start if I had come to terms with being strong and feminine at the same time. So no, I'm not comfortable with donning pants as a symbol of male power. Because I am powerful, whether I'm wearing high heels or sneakers. And that's a message that I think anybody, males and females and everything in between, can benefit from.
It's amazing how quickly negativity can get me down.
I decided I'm going to grad school. Next fall. I want to get a Masters in Journalism. No, not education. And no, I haven't had any journalism experience since high school. Why do you ask?
I haven't tried to accomplish anything since high school. No competitions, no real application or challenges. The last time I went out on the line and tried working for something I wanted was when I was a senior, and I applied to be the English Sterling Scholar for my high school (something I achieved, by the way, even though in hindsight I think it was because only one other person applied). I didn't put any effort into college applications, I never worked to get published or entered contests while in college, and now that I'm past university I thought I'd just ride out that life of mediocrity.
Too bad I don't want that.
I want a spectacular life, I want to work hard and feel pride in what I'm doing. I want to be able to point to something and say, "There. I did that. And it was hard. BUT I DID IT."
There are two things impeding me in this goal.
1) I am lazy. Every time I want to work on something, there's this little part of my brain that starts talking about all the shows now available on Netflix, and how hard I've already worked that day, and how I need just a little break to restore my creative juices. Next thing I know, I'm two hours deep into Mad Men and yelling about how Jon Hamm deserves all the things in the world. All the things.
2) I am a defeatist. As much as I try to think positively, and to constantly be reassuring (after all, I am freaking awesome), when the pedal hits the metal there's only one thing going through my head. And that's how much I suck. How big of a failure I am. I can't write. I can't sell myself. I have no impressive qualifications or character traits that set me ahead of the curve. When I look at the requirements for applications, and then look at myself, it's ridiculous. I just see a person with a giant average sticker.
Oh, I see you have a B+ average. That's adorable. Oh, I see you wrote a term paper on Dracula and Feminine Sexuality. That's a subject that's been heavily examined before. You want to write articles? The last thing you wrote for a newspaper was about your favorite pair of shoes? Oh, that's just the cutest thing ever. Now excuse me while I talk to this intern who has been ghostwriting for the New York Times, working in an inner-city school and has published several articles about the potential cure for AIDS. I know that I have something to offer schools. People. Life. But I have a serious problem noticing all thepositives when I'm paralyzed by every downfall, frozen in place by my own inadequacies. It's so much more comforting to never try and never fail.
This week I survived the official first day of school. It was a day fraught with terror, but completed with my own unique brand of reverence and ritual.
The old? Forcing down a breakfast of scrambled eggs on toast, fighting a stomach tight with nervousness. From my first day of Jr. High as a measly twelve-year-old, I've been cursed with this near-manic excitement and apprehension at school's start. Back then it was worries about whether my teachers and peers would like me. Would they accept me? Will I get lost? How will I know where to go and what to do? Now, it's concern over whether my students will warm up to me, and if the other faculty will be nice. And whether I'll adjust to the schedule of a new school, whether I'll know when to dismiss classes and where the students will go. So basically, will they accept me and will I get lost?
The new? Going to a concert the night before school starts. This is the second year in a row I've done it, and I think I might try to keep up the habit. It's a nice way to keep my mind off the upcoming day. My excitement for the music at night staves off the vomitous butterflies of nerves during the day. That sense of
excitement/anticipation is basically the only thing in common between this year and last. Since I'm a sucker for year retrospectives (I often look at every day in comparison to the year before. It helps remind me of how well I'm progressing in life), let's compare, shall we?
August, 2011. The artist? Death Cab for Cutie.
I miss chubby Ben Gibbard. Come back!
I was so looking forward to Death Cab. And musically, the band did not disappoint. It was just too bad everything else did. This experience marked the beginning of a long four months that continuously and harshly proved to me that my time in Utah was over. I might have been there, but I was not a part of it. Last fall helped me understand how expired milk feels--my presence in Utah was also a nauseating, unwanted one, an act in me taking up fridge space in a place I was no longer needed. And let's throw in smelly and lumpy, just for the sake of the metaphor.
It didn't help that I was so nervous about seeing Death Cab, full of terror that I might run into the ex from a nasty break-up. I had planned to go with a bunch of guy friends, dudes that could offer a good support system. Instead the only guy that showed up sucker-punched me with the presence of his summer girlfriend. Seeing a band you love while your friend and his semi-significant other are canoodling beside you sucks. Especially when your own canoodler is 1000 miles away. If anything deserves a fail label, that does.
September, 2012. The artist? My friend Amber's band, Varnish. Check 'em out.
This year I traded the back of an awkward stadium general admission for the intimacy of a tiny bar. I think it's a good indicator of my life this time around. Maybe it's not as outwardly glamorous, but the events around it are genuine, filled with peace and belonging. Like the previous year, I was walking into a concert experience (essentially) by myself. But rather than sit around the edge feeling uncomfortable, I chatted with people. I rocked out to this band headed by a woman who had an intense commitment to music, to her identity, to her life. The authenticity of the experiencewas through the roof.
So that progress-o-meter? Doing well. This year has been streets ahead so far.
Random Segment: What's Making Me Happy This Week
On my beloved Pop Culture Happy Hour, the final segment is always a small focus on what is making each cast member happy this week. And, for the first time in a while, I actually have something that is not the podcast itself that is making me happy! Win?
Two years ago, I would obsessively watch the True Grit trailer. It was a sure-fire cure for the blues.
I'd like to introduce this year's contender for the most happy-making trailer. A trailer that feeds country and funk and snark and gore. A trailer with history and anachronism. Mostly the latter. A trailer made for me. A trailer made as a precious gift for you. A trailer for the masses. Without further ado, I present: Django Unchained.
I may or may not have just watched this five times in quick succession.
I was watching The Newsroom today when an interesting thought hit me... oh, you haven't seen The Newsroom yet? Really? That delightful new concoction from Aaron Sorkin that mixes cynicism with wild, patriotic optimism? The TV show about a news show that wants to be fair, and thorough, and actually return to the state of honest journalism that has been sadly nonexistent in recent years? That show starring Jeff Daniels and Sam Waterson and Emily Mortimer and Alison Pill (who was my favorite part of Scott Pilgrim) and Dev Patel (who I've hoped would do something to redeem his last appearance in the worst movie ever). You know. That show.*
Anyway. Back to my evening and the inevitable exciting-ness therein. As I was watching the second episode of The Newsroom, this aching started. This slow burn spread from my sternum, burrowed though ribs and lungs and settled into a white hot point of despair right between ventricles and arteries and whatever necessary tubes lead to the heart.
I want to have a job I care about. I so, so desperately want to have a job I care about.
There's a reason I haven't been writing a lot lately,either here or privately. It's because while life is going great, and while I love being in Seattle and adjusting to being married (surprisingly easy, actually) and having new friends and new experiences, there is this constant drag on my spirit. My job has been the greatest source of strife for me over the past few months. Every day, I wake up soulsick, knowing that I have to drive and drive and then sit and sit, trying to fight apathetic teens and over-zealous parents, teaching a test I believe is fundamentally flawed, all while struggling against a broken system. I hate it. I HATE IT SO MUCH.
It's not a difficult job. It's just mindless, and soul-sucking, and my branch is run by people who have absolutely no business being in charge of anything. I'm lucky that I have an out soon, and that come August I start an excellent job at an excellent school. But right now I'm stuck in the middle of this disaster. It's a strange experience, witnessing a workplace fall apart. I feel like I'm watching the tail-end of a year-long decline at my company, watching the students and teachers abandon ship one by one, and anxiously waiting for the time when I can put on my life preserver and jump off.
That's why it's difficult for me to view people that feel so strongly about the importance of what they are doing. I am self-aware enough to know that I'm driven by passion, that I studied a field that could feed that need and that I'm quite skilled at to boot, yet here I am. Drowning in the after tow of life-progression blues. Trying my best to survive these two months until maybe, just maybe I can feel some drive and inspiration again. Until I can float atop the waters, soaking in sunlight, rather than being sucked into the riptide.
*It's also that show that has some salty language, so if you have sensitive ears maybe it's not quite the show for you. But may I recommend the first four seasons of The West Wing?
Well. Quite a bit has happened in the past, oh, three or four months. Seriously. These have probably been the most chaotic months of my life. I'll try to give some brief highlights of the crazy shenanigans I've been up to since August.
-I completed my student teaching. Woah. This was the most exhausting, exhilarating experience of my life, and boy did I love it. I never thought that I could be so frustrated and so enchanted with students. I taught Humanities, English 9, and Honors English 9. I learned so much during my few months there, but the most important was this: I am a teacher. This is what I am supposed to do. There are countless things about my instruction I'd change for my own classroom, but I still loved teaching. I did well. There were kids I struggled with and kids that were a delight. But overall, teaching was a beautiful, beautiful thing. I got brownies, hand-drawn pictures of dragons, and awesome stories every day. Definitely worth getting up at five every morning.
-I got engaged and survived a long distance relationship! I should get a medal.
-At the last minute, I bought a ticket from my friend Thom and went to the Foo Fighters concert. Best. Decision. Ever. I have no idea how I could have considered not going. Dude. Dave Grohl rocks my world harder than I could have imagined. PLUS he played the drums for opener Cage the Elephant. I died. And then screamed really loud. And then died again. And loved every second of it. Oh, Dave Grohl.
-This semester, I also tested practically every gyro available in Provo. I don't know why, but there was never a time when I didn't want a gyro. Oh, what delicious morsels.
-I became a record person. Yep. After finally getting a lovely sound system to accompany my record player, I started listening to vinyl. You guys, it's totally better.
-For the first time ever, I dyed my hair. I decided to take baby steps, and just added a few turquoise streaks. You know, something nice and subtle. I look awesome, and punk rock, and classy. All at the same time.
-I enjoyed a lovely afternoon at Gardner Village with Rosemary and Mary, some of the only girls on the planet who can make shopping an enjoyable experience. We found the strangest conglomeration or ridiculosity and awesomeness in Anastasia's Attic, and then ate delicious food. Twas a day most marvelously spent.
-Spent way too many hours dancing to "Lonely Boy" by the Black Keys. Lauren, Ashley, Annie and I went a little crazy with this song. But we totally have the dance memorized now.
-Finally caved in and watched all of Parks and Recreation. Best three days of my life. RonSwansonforever!
-And the biggest, most ridiculous thing I've done is finish school and leave Provo.
That's right. I left Utah Valley.
YES.
Today, I packed up my final college apartment, said goodbye to my last college roommates, and drove away from BYU for the last time. Tomorrow morning I head up to Seattle, where I plan on spending at least the next two years.
This has been an intense, difficult time for me. My relationship with Provo has become more antagonistic, especially over the last year, but there are parts I love in it. It is the most crazy, messed up, ridiculous town in the US, but it will always hold a special place in my heart. I formed some forever friendships there, and I don't even believe in those things. It opened me up to some amazing opportunities. It enabled me to grow in ways I didn't think possible.
Life is not perfect, and thinking back over the past four and a half years I have spent roaming around Provo and BYU, there are so many things I would change. But I don't think I would have become the person I am today without living in Provo and going to BYU, so I amincredibly grateful for that.
The other day I was randomly listening to iTunes, and this song came up.
I hate Rod Stewart, and will never forgive him for the monstrosity that is "Maggie May," but I think that this song encapsulates my feelings perfectly. Somehow or other.
Even though I do wish I knew what I know now when I was younger, I'm still happy I had the process of learning everything. I had good times. I had great times. I had times that I wish I could forget. But each moment added up to where I am right now, and I am completely satisfied with that.
So here's to my new adventure. But more importantly, here's to you. Odds are, if you're reading this blog, you've helped shape the past four years in one way or another. So I want you to know, thank you. I've appreciated knowing you more than you could know. Whether you are family, friend, classmate, ward member, or random acquaintance, it's been wonderful knowing and learning from you. And as I start this new chapter in my life, a chapter that thrills and terrifies me, I want you to know I cherish you.
And now, I'm moving forward. Let's see how this goes.
Well, after returning from a much-needed weekend in Seattle, I have just a couple things to say.
1. I love my boyfriend. Yep, it's blog official love.
2. I love Seattle.
I was honestly surprised at how fantastic it felt to be back in Washington. When I left, I was grateful for my time there but relieved to return to the land of mountains and sunshine. I didn't feel like my connection with the city was that deep. I appreciated Seattle, but it was a stopover, a happy footnote in the Adventures of Cat. But oh, how wrong I was. As soon as the plane dipped over the water, I was amazed. I could breathe again. My shoulders relaxed. My heart was lighter. True, a lot of that might have to do with the incredible company I had this weekend, but for the first time in a long time I felt calm. Relaxed. At peace.
I don't feel at peace in Provo. I can't feel at peace in Provo. From my first moment back in Utah Valley, my stomach tightened and my esophagus closed off. A constant tension developed between my shoulder blades, and I can't seem to shake this ever-present feeling that my being here is wrong. I'm not comfortable in my old stomping grounds. Every nook and cranny of this place holds haunting memories of last year, memories that make me full of hate and anger and nausea. Memories I would give anything to completely obliterate so they no longer infect my soul.
Don't worry. I'm working on it.
Add that personal angst to the burdens of student teaching, and the last month has been anything but a cake walk. In short, I needed this weekend. I needed it very badly. Every single moment was perfection. From my first foray into Canada, to the over abundance of delicious breakfast foods, to long walks and quiet conversation, this trip was everything I could have hoped for.
And now I have new faith. Faith that I can endure these next few months. For whenever I get soul sick, whenever the heartache and thousand natural shocks of this woeful existence start bearing down on me, I have a healthy store of memories and dreams to feast on. Memories of bridges and trees and cliff-sides. Steak tacos and jazz in the streets. Gelato and ocean views. Church meetings that lift my spirit and inspire me towards good. Lessons that preach of charity, lessons that strengthen my belief. Mysterious cemeteries with broken stones. Watching movies and finally breathing easy, finally being able to relax.
All of this was set against a background of held hands and constant love. Yes, I might whine and bemoan my sorry lot sometimes, but no longer. Now I have something to remember. How amazing this life is, a life that can be so difficult but offers such blessings in the midst of darkness.
Well, I just watched Reality Bites again. Dearie me, what a great movie. Except every time I watch it I wish, with all my heart, that I could find Ethan Hawke even just a little attractive. I mean the character he plays is fantastic, intriguing, and has that whole dirty musician thing that's usually my weakness. But I can't get over his greasy weasel face. Such a shame.
Anyway, watching it inspired me to write. To write candidly, and with very little censor. Well, little censor for me, that is. Going from an emotionless brick wall to a wall with a small crack might not seem like much, but take what you can get.
If you've read this blog at all, you might guess that I'm a little media-obsessed. I'm an escapist in the truest sense of the word. Well, maybe escape isn't quite right. I don't seek to lose myself in the art of the day. Actually, it's the opposite--with every piece of music or TV or movie I watch, I try to use it to figure out my own existence. In fact, this trait has been exhibited several times on the ol' Angst Muffins, and even in a previous post about Reality Bites (found here). But I'm starting to wonder if this isn't the best tactic to take. Possibly, just possibly, stories by others do not carry clues to figuring out my own puzzling situations. What a blow.
That sounded a wee bit crazy. It's not as if I take everything I watch to be some great mystical Ouija Board. I don't think that I should mimic character's actions or anything. But the reason media is fascinating is because it forms connections, and I do believe that the more you examine the connections, the better any viewing/reading/consuming experience will be.
Take this Christmas Break for instance. Things you need to know about my Christmas Break: A- Fall semester was absolute Hell. B-Over Christmas Break, I watched the series My So-Called Life in it's entirety.
I am not proud of this statement. Mostly because, all nostalgia aside, My So-Called Life is a terrible show. No, really. There is not a single likeable character in the mix.
* RANT* Except for Ricky. Ricky is pretty great. I never really understood why he hung out with Rayanne, except for the whole momma-bear 'no one will look out for her if I don't' spiel. She's a bad seed Ricky! You are better than that. *END RANT*
But back to MSCL, as the cool kids say. Really, just an irksome show. Like I said, bad characters, sophomoric, irritating dialogue ("It was, like, so totally elemental. Like my soul was, like, all, exposed or something." I don't think this is a direct quote, but it might as well be), and episodes that seemed to jump around and were over-dramatic, over-acted, and straight up annoying.
And yet I loved it. And what's more, I identified with it. Go figure.
There were times when I would finish an episode and just sit and squirm, I identified with Angela Chase so much. You see, back then, I had my Jordan Catalano, a guy I was oh-so-into, but like Jordan, all he wanted to do was make out in the high school furnace room and ignore me in front of his bandmates (not literally, that's referencing a story arc from the show for emphasis). And that Christmas, I had my Brian Krakow, the childhood friend, the boy next door who just wanted a shot, but circled my street on his bike one too many times (once again, a show reference, not reality).
And I thought, 'hey, MSCL. These can't be the only options, right?'
So I would sit a fume and vow to find the third character. An escape route. And all this time I would sit and have internal monologues that were undoubtedly in Angela's voice, and then I would get frustrated because my subconscious sounded like a fifteen year old girl. I didn't ever want that, even when I was fifteen.
See, I think that was the part that bothered me the most about finding myself in Angela Chase. She was a sophomore in high school. And I was twenty-one and finishing up college. There should not have been any comparison, right? I should not be sympathizing with the struggles of teenagers.
Sometimes I seriously worry that I have stunted growth. That is not to say that I am immature. In fact, I've usually considered myself more rational than other people my age (she said ever so smugly). That sounded condescending, and I apologize. It's not intellectually, or physically, but emotionally. I joke that I am an emotionless brick wall, but for a long time, I think that was true. I didn't start letting people in--whether it's friends or relationships or whatever--until college. So I guess it makes sense that I'm a little behind, desperately trying to catch up to the high school sophomores of the world, to figure out how interacting with others is supposed to work. I'm working on it, but sometimes progress is slow. Sometimes, I still think it's easier to just shut everything and everyone out. But alas, as I'm discovering, I'm an unexpectedly social creature, and I don't think the arms-length method of living would be worth it in the end.
So I'll progress. Slow but steady. And who knows, maybe I'll hit where I'm supposed to be one of these days.
To slow down. To breathe. To focus on what and why and how. To keep the details of school and life and choices from crushing me. To recognize hope. To ponder. To pray. To trust.
Oh, and just because all of these pictures are from the recent trip to California, I have to add one more. To always, always respect and honor this:
