Dearest Xanax readers…. I have come to a point in my blogging … career? is that even what this is called…. that I need to archive Xanax or Running Shoes, and eventually shut it down. I know that I have many readers that have been with me from the very beginning, so I want to let you know that although I am shutting this down, I have started the next chapter. If you loved this blog… come away with me, and follow me over at: Jameson & Vinyl.
In life we get these moments that string together and make us who we are. That’s what life is, a big run on sentence of moments. What’s strange about going through a divorce, is losing all of the good moments. Because obviously the relationship had them, right? I mean you did fall in love with each other. Back before you were blocking each other’s phone numbers and deleting their naked pics out of your phone. Right? Did you dream that? Moments snuggled up in the morning, before the kids were awake, whispering silly things to each other. GONE. Not just the moment, but THAT person is gone. It’s like the person you knew died, except you get to fucking fight with the ghost of them! And fault, ha! Fault is such an easy thing to assign. Truth is, it’s my fault. It’s his fault. It’s OUR fault. It was never one moment that led to the fall of Rome. It obviously wasn’t the good moments that led us down this road. It was the moments we walked our own roads instead of walking home, together. One team. Without being united, we stood as an easy target. Now I hear the hatred in every thing you say. It pierces me to know I made decisions that make you speak to me this way. But you’ve always spoken this way to me when you were angry, the only thing new is the hate. And I feel it. It cuts me. It’s doing what you want it to. But not for the same reasons. I used to hate knowing you were angry at me, but now I just hate that we hurt each other. I hate that you think you never mattered to me. I hope that subsides over time and you remember those mornings. Because I don’t want to feel like I wasted ten years of my life in something that ended in hatred. I want to learn from our mistakes. I want to make sure I water and feed the trust moving forward. I want to learn from the mean words that floated between us, because you really can’t take them back. I don’t want to spend another night in a panic attack on the bathroom floor because I said the wrong thing and you turned your phone off. You’re an addiction I can’t feed, it’s no good for me. I read your words again, I can tell I hurt you, because you’re slashing. I know you. I had to fly from here. I read your words. I have to delete them all. I can’t let them be all over my week anymore. I’m standing now. I can do this.
Each moment of your life builds a chain, a hallway on a journey somewhere. Destinations aren’t always known as the path starts to twist and turn on you. I find myself so very often wondering about my road. There are a lot of stories behind me. A lot of mistakes, regrets and misfortunes. But there are just as many beautiful tales in my book as well. Chapters seem to be reading faster these days, I’m not sure why my sense of time is so hyper aware currently, but it is. My daughters are rushing right into adulthood at an alarming rate. Not only that, but I can sense myself getting older because hooking up and getting the right channel on the television is getting harder and harder… why are there 7 remotes? Ugh. Yes, that was a tangent, but I do that. That’s actually exactly how the hallways of my mind became so cluttered. I turn, and weave and curiosity has a tendency to grab and shake me before it redeposits me back on my course. I always land changed.
I recently read a blog about a girl who was going through a break up, because she intimidated people, she was told she was too much, ridiculous, over thinking things all the time. I wondered how many times I had thought the same things she was feeling. One of the worst things I’ve ever heard are the words, “you’re being crazy,” said when I was trying to genuinely explain how I felt about something. I’m not sure how much time I’ve actually debated with myself over the words of someone I love telling me, I’m crazy. I used to write a lot, it freed me. But then it became something that I had to explain to people, because a blog had bothered them, they took it personally. I became censored. A word that drives me bat-shit crazy. I’m a journalist! Censored. FUCK.
You know what’s craziest to me… those moments… the good ones. They always seem to fade in comparison to the bad, until time has started to go by. Then the good ones seem to resurface and remind you of what was great about something. Not in a, ohhhh I would love to do this again way, but more of an… oh yea, that’s right… that was a great day. I have that stupid Timehop app on my phone, and I haven’t decided if it is a good thing or a bad thing in my life right now. I get pictures from a year ago, football parties at our house, us as a couple, smiling and happy…. then I get reminders that 4 years before that we were split up and I was about to go to Italy, and he was going to his girlfriends house. Moments of hate. Moments of love. Just normal moments mixed in as well. Soccer games. Pictures hung in the hallway. Moments further back, before him, the girls and I alone. Times back in Florida, moments I have forgotten actually. The words, “you’re overreacting,” play in my mind. Maybe I always do. Maybe I’m crazy.
I think of the love I’m feeling now. The wonder mixed with the raw hurt. How you can mourn something and feel something new and enchanting all at once. Earlier today I watched the movie Serendipity, and there’s a scene in it when Sarah is telling Jonathan that Serendipity is one of her favorite words, and he says, “Why?” with pure curiosity on his face. Every day since I have known Stuart… since high school, when he asks me why, about something I love, it’s with that same curious expression. He wants to know, because my answer is a little more insight to… me. My thoughts feel rambled. I know that’s how they appear on the screen as well. Maybe sometimes you just have to throw them out there, and see what sticks. I know that how I feel is different, as love always is. Each time. Something in you changes. Pieces break. What I love about him is completely different character traits than I’ve ever even looked for in another person… maybe that’s because he’s always been my person and actively in my life. To be honest, I’m not even sure. This road is long and twisty, my GPS is down, and it’s not bright enough to see my map. I’ve got to move off of sheer gut instinct at this point. And it leads to you.
The lyrics pouring through my mind right now seem to bounce from Metallica to Phantom of the Opera to Garth Brooks. I’m all over the place. I painted my nails a deep dark purple, almost black. Fitting. I think about writing. I think of all the people that always seem to have something to say after I’ve written. I contemplate just buying a journal. Internalizing everything. But isn’t it already in there? Putting it in my journal doesn’t free it. Doesn’t let it go. Doesn’t let it reach out.
Words that never set themselves free from my brain, they plague me. They tie themselves down to my tongue and send nervous reactions through my mind. My eyes are darting back and forth looking for somewhere to verbally vomit. It all shuts down. The words bouncing now, around my mind. The coffee gives them jitters. I shouldn’t have given them coffee, now they’re just banging on things looking for an escape.
I check my watch. It’s 9 am. Lovely. Mon-fucking-day. Ahhhh Monday. I reach inside for inner peace, it washes over me slowly. I can feel it. My breathing calms, I focus on that. Smooth, gravel voice in my ears. Breathe. I must relish in this calm, because in mere moments I know there is someone just waiting to push me down, just to see how I react.
Hey Monday…. not today my dear, not today.
Recently I used one of the above words wrong. But… once I had done said crime… I began really diving into the difference between my conscience and being conscious and the gray state of my brain where they run smack the fuck into each other in a kaleidoscope of WTF and red blood spatter.
I was kindly provided the definition of conscious when I misused the word, and the definition has been plaguing the crap out of me for days.
Conscious: Aware of and responding to one’s surroundings. Awake. Having knowledge of something, aware. Mindful. Sensitive to.
Conscience: The part of the mind that makes you aware of your actions as being either morally right or wrong.
Funny… these words can and should be used together often. If you’re consciously making a decision then you are showing awareness… which means regardless of if what you are doing is right or wrong, you’re fucking doing it anyway. You consciously did that.
Anyway after my in depth correction (from a major pain in the ass
whose own intelligence levels I am really starting to question) anyway, after being corrected, my brain could not drop the subject matter. I began debating with myself the context of what one consciously does and where the conscience falls into the mix.
What I came up with was: I don’t care at all. I don’t care if your conscience is conscious currently. Because it’s obviously not. Your intervention into all things related to me, is unwarranted, and I’m done patty caking over it. Take your sweet, smothering, one sided opinions and consciously shove them back up your ass. Or swallow them. Or choke on them. My conscience does not care. My conscience is not concerned, or any longer conscious of your existence at all. Wow. I’m pretty sure I just used both words, right. A LOT.