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.
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.
There are these moments when your children are small, when they throw tantrums or vomit down the front of your white pantsuit… that you simply forgive and forget. The reason you do this is because 20 minutes later, that same day, their cheeks look like cherubs, they snuggle in your lap and tell you how much they love you, or they fall asleep and look like sunshine breaking through on a cloudy day. My point… little kids have a way of being beautiful after they’ve been monsters. So you keep loving them. You keep feeding them. You keep allowing them oxygen.
But, the darndest thing happens. The monsters just keep getting bigger. One morning you wake-up to find that a full-fledged teenager has rolled out of bed in your child’s room. No more cherub cheeks. No more sunshine. Nope. They’re always cloudy. They walk through the day with a rain cloud above their head and at any given time they can call lightning down to strike you where you stand if you happen to disagree with them, don’t hand them food, or dare I even whisper…. ask them to wash a cup.
Your natural instinct is to run from these beasts. To arm yourself with kitchen knives and a helmet. To sleep with your door locked, naturally wild beasts are nocturnal. They’ve lost their means to communicate, becoming grunting, glaring, eye-rolling zombies of the sweet angelic faces you can vaguely remember from their youth. From somewhere in the back of your mind, the words to an old song you know comes forth and smacks you with the truth, “You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave….” oh dear Lord. I’m trapped.
I tiptoe through the house, daring wake the monsters. Let them sleep. Or meditate. Or whatever it is they are doing while they float 6 feet above their bed, pentagrams drawn on the floor. I have clean laundry. Dare I knock? I stand and throw it toward their bed, they’ll never notice anyway, as it mixes with the clean/dirty laundry already there.
I need a hero.