Out with the Old, and In with the New.

So its been almost 3 years since Ive written on this blog. I went back and read a few of the posts and I cringe at myself. I've grown, and changed so much in the last few years, that its like a stranger them. Odd, but accurate. My life has evolved, my outlook has evolved, my priorities have evolved. Even my sense of style has evolved. Which isn't that important, but its still something thats changed lol. It's New Years Eve, and I have butterflies in my stomach. I have no idea why. I'm anxious. And a little nervous. Maybe my normal anxiety-ridden self is just anticipating the festivities we have planned. I dont know. I just dont know. I find myself saying these words a lot. Its a safe response for me. I'm indecisive, and wishy washy. I dont know why. Its not on purpose. I'm still trying to figure out who I am. And who I want to be. Which has absolutely nothing to do with New Years Eve. Ive been asked what my resolution is this year, and I dont know. Maybe its to NOT have a resolution and just let life be. There ya go. Thats it. I do know. Out with the old and in with the new.

huh.

You ever get that feeling that your life is not how you perceive it? Like you thought you were way more important that you actually are? I had that happen today. I had that kind of moment where you just kinda stop and go...huh...wait...what? Nothing big happened. Quite the opposite, actually. It was a perfectly normal, monotonous day. I just cant get rid of the feeling that my perception of reality was soooooo far off base. My world kinda tilted. Huh.
Also, Ive been thinking a lot about friendships, and my own lack of them; I am a hard person to be friends with. I'm wishy washy, irritable, overly sensitive, and just kind of a grump. It takes a lot to get me out of the house, which is something Im dealing with personally, and I am forever caught in this rut where money is concerned. I never have any of it, and I know some of my friends are ok buying stuff to get me out of the house, but I absolutely HATE being the mooch. Ive been mooched off of, and I would never want someone to feel as disgusted with me, as I did of said moocher. I have no idea why my best friends put up with me the way that they do. I am blessed.
Thats all for this episode of visualized verbal vomit.

so the adventure begins.

Write what’s in my head. Right. A dear friend told me to write every day, just to get back in the habit of writing, and Im finally taking his advice. Im going to write pretty much whatever is in my head at that moment regardless of how lame I think its sounds. I dont know if I will always post it on my blog. Some of it might be a bit personal for the interent, but I am going to write.

I keep thinking about what I want to write. I have a story that is stuck in my head. Its going 20 different directions at once. Almost as if its actually 20 different stories. I’m over thinking my writing, and I’m over thinking my story. I just think to much in general. I cant tell you how many times I have wished that I could turn my brain off. Ever see that movie ‘Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind”? I wish I could just erase things out of my brain. My life would be a hell of a lot easier. I feel like certain memories have a negative effect on my though process. If that makes sense.

I know I want to write fiction. I feel like I have more of a chance at success in writing fiction. Which sounds kind lame, because duh…with fiction you can write whatever you want. I’m struggling with figuring out what kind of story I want to write. I could probably write an awesome romance story, but as I’ve said before, romance stories are a dime a dozen. I’ve entertained the idea of writing a horror/suspense story, but I honestly don’t think I have the stomach for it. I’m afraid I might crawl into a dark place, and not be able to get out. I don’t want that to effect my parenting abilities, or my marriage. And I certainly don’t want that to effect my mental stability. My moods are so easily swayed as it is. I don’t need my own story to scare me or depress me. No bueno.

My husband I started a little collaboration. He has this great story idea, and I took notes while we were discussing the story. Im impressed. His story is original, and interesting. I cant remember if the story was originally planned for a comic book, or if this story has just kind of been floating around his head for god knows how long. Not that it matters. I want to write the story. He thinks I can do it. But I don’t think I can. Its not my story. I don’t know if I will be able to take his characters and bring them to life. Im going to try my best. If nothing, it will be a good brain exercise.

Wish me luck.

Swine Flu

I am so frustrated with this whole swine flu thing. Yeah, Im a little nervous, because I have a child (what mother isnt a little bit nervous, especially with Mexico's death toll), but more than anything, I am irritated. I keep hearing different theories from different 'specialist', and I keep hearing everyone being told to go to the doctor, even if youre a little bit sick, so that doctors can diagnose you, and the CDC can get a read on just how many people are actually infected.
Well what about those of us who dont have medical insurance?
What about those of us who cant afford to sit in a clinic with really sick people absolutely all day (and if you arent sick before you get there, you probably will be after you leave) and cant afford to pay the $150 they charge to see you? what the hell are we supposed to do? My child is covered by medi-cal/healthy families (thank god), but my husband and I have no coverage whatsoever, and thats frustrating. And of course I woke up sick yesterday, and Im still sick today. Im fairly certain I just have a sinus infection but I have this little voice in the back of my head saying 'what if its not...what if it is swine flu?' which is kind of rediculous, because I have no idea how on earth I would have been exposed to swine flu itself, or anyone infected, but the errant thought is still there, and thats enough to irritate me all the more.

An old one, but a good one...

Originally written Sunday, September 28, 2008 (the day after the 3 year mark of my fathers death) but I wanted to post it here. It took a lot for me to write everything out, and I wanted to share it.


Yesterday I had this blog all planned out. Every point I wanted to make, every memory I wanted to recall, every thought I wanted to write down. Today I have nothing. This last month I've had this feeling of foreboding…this knot in the pit of my stomach, all leading up to this day. This morning when I woke up, it was all gone. I was left with an aching sadness that burrowed itself into my soul. Into the core of my very being. I've been in a zombie like state for the majority of the day. I haven't cried once. I had a moment where my throat closed up on me a little, but I got it under control before I lost it. There is a time and place for meltdowns. Sitting at my desk at work is not one of them. I probably won't have a meltdown today. I've tried really hard to keep the emotions in check all day, and so far I've done an OK job. Instead of restricting my thought process and keeping my mind busy, I've let it wander, but when the memories became too painful, I stopped thinking. Just told my mind to stop. And surprisingly it worked.


All day today, 101.5 has been playing all of my dads favorite songs. It's like he's trying to comfort or reassure me. Or maybe I'm just reading too much into it. Or my dad just liked popular songs. I don't know, but it's been interesting. The songs have allowed me to bring up those little memories that have almost been lost in the catacombs of my mind. I was lying in bed the other day, playing with Max, and he grabbed my hand. I was marveling in the softness of his little chubby baby hand, and thinking about how I want to remember the way his hand felt in that exact moment forever. I startled at the realization that I couldn't easily remember what my Dads hand felt like. I used to be able to just imagine his hand and instantly pull up a sensory memory of the way his hand felt in mine. The hard won calluses from years of physical labor, the overall strength they possessed, how delicate my hand looked in his. Such a seemingly ordinary memory. Gone. I had to sit and concentrate to be able to 'feel' it. I lost it. I felt as if I was forgetting him. It reminded me of an excerpt from one of my favorite books that I had posted in a previous blog:



"You cannot die of grief, though it feels as if you can. A heart does not actually break, though sometimes your chest aches as if it is breaking. Grief dims with time. It is the way of things. There comes a day when you smile again, and you feel like a traitor. How dare I feel happy. How dare I be glad in a world where my father is no more. And then you cry fresh tears, because you do not miss him as much as you once did, and giving up your grief is another kind of death."

~Laurell K. Hamilton

'Stroke of Midnight'





I felt like I was letting his memory slip away. Like my brain is so full of new memories that it decided to downsize, and get rid of the little memories that it thought I wouldn't miss. But I did. I miss those little memories. It's those little memories that keep my Father alive in my heart. The little memories that are so easily overlooked. Of course I remember all the big memories. The father daughter dance when I was 7 where he embarrassed the hell out of me by dancing, the day he came home to live with me, the day he came to get me from school when my grandma died, the look on his face when he proposed to Yvette, the lopsided boyish grin he gave me when I told him that I was supposed to have kids before I was 25. He exclaimed "I'm going to be a Poppa?"…he was so excited. I frequent these memories in my head, like a person visits a museum. I mosey about them like I have all the time in the world. They are still painful, but more bearable than ever before. I thought that by becoming a mother, I would turn into this ferocious, overprotective creature that will do anything in her power to shield her son from anything that could potentially harm him. And in a way I have, just not quite to the extent that I thought. Becoming a mother has taken my hidden box of emotions, my meticulously built, fireproof, stronghold box of emotions, and shattered it. Utterly destroyed it. Being a mother has forced me to feel. I used to wear my callousness like a cloak. A cloak that I could wrap around me and hide in when need be. Why waste tears if you can decide you don't care, and move onto the next topic? It made perfect sense in my head. Being a mother has made me soft. This year, is the hardest and the easiest year dealing with my Dads death. Taking Max to visit his Grandfathers' grave for the first time is not going to be easy, but I know that by taking him there, and explaining to him who his grandfather was, and who he still is, will be cathartic. And it will help keep my Dad alive. I will never be able to fully explain to Max how great his grandfather was. How quick witted, sarcastic and hilarious he was. (If you knew him, you know what I'm talking about. Every time I try to describe him, I never do him justice.) The saddest part for me is that my husband and son missed out on one of the greatest people I've ever known. Even if he wasn't my father, I'd still think he was pretty great. Max will never know his Grandfathers love. And that hurts

the enemy has foiled my plans...

I sat here probably for a good 2 hours the other day trying to come up with something to write about. Looks like writers block has struck again. I started 3 different blogs about 3 completely different things, and then while reading them, I felt like I sounded lame, so I deleted them.
Most of the time I feel like I don't have the right to have an opinion. Ive never been an overly opinionated person, and Ive always enjoyed the fact that I could be neutral in most arguments. There are exceptions to this, because there are some things that I will vehemently argue about, but most of the time I can relate to both sides of any discussion, and stay neutral.
This does absolutely nothing for my new career as a blogger.
How interesting is it to read about how I float in the middle of discussions? How I get pulled back and forth, listening to each valid point both sides make? I wish I was more interesting than that. I watch people argue. I observe and make note of how their eyes flash and widen with passion for their topic. How their foreheads crease or the corners of their mouths turn down when they obviously disagree with something. How some people think they are hiding how they feel, when its written plainly on their face and in their eyes.
I am a watcher. I file the reactions away for future reference. Maybe that's why I never form an opinion. Its not that I'm stupid. Its not that I don't care. I just have my own agenda. I live in my own little world in my head, making notes for a story that doesn't exist yet.
I have come to the conclusion that I absorb other peoples opinion in order to write a more believable character. Do you buy that? Because I just came up with it, and I'm still rolling it around in my head to see if it fits me. I'm still trying to figure out who I am now after becoming a mother. I was fairly secure with who I was before my son was born, but now I have a completely different perspective. Its strange to discover that you aren't who you used to be. That things you held in the highest regard no longer matter. Very bizarre.

Im trying to start writing again...

After almost 4 years of writers block, I've decided to try my hand at writing again. I used to write constantly. Documenting everything in either a story or a simple journal entry. I was writing every single day. After my father passing away suddenly my mind shut down. I just stopped. Everything stopped. Now, after having an amazing marriage and an incredible child, I feel like I have stuff to write about again.

I just cant figure out what.

I want to write something epic, and heartfelt. I want to write something that will speak to someone’s soul. In the past I have written my life, my life mimicked in a fictional story, and just random rants about what was wrong in my life (with funny inputs here and there to lighten the mood so it wasn’t a completely whiny ‘woe is me’ tirade). As of right now the only complaint I have is that I don’t have enough money. Which isn’t entirely true. We are fine. I just wish we were more than fine. And I consider that something that isn’t worth complaining about.

I read things about bestselling authors who ‘had a dream’ and then wrote what they dreamt, and had a happily ever after with a 4 book deal and a movie...(yes I am jealous). If I wrote what I dreamt about I would be a nervous wreck. It’s bad enough having it float around in your subconscious, but to have it in physical form for all to see would be a little too much. And I don’t want people to know what I dream. Way too personal. I guess I could take my dreams and do variations of them…that might work. I just dream some dark shit, and I don’t want to subject innocent people to my darkness. I don’t want to be associated with horrid things. Like ‘ooh she writes about murder, she might lose her marbles and murder someone’. Or my favorite, ‘ooh she writes about sex, she must be a nymphomaniac whore”.

I’ve made the assumption, as I’m sure we all have, that writers write what they know. I don’t even know when I heard it, but some well meaning teacher or professor told me to write what I know. That that was the best way to get the creative juices flowing. Well, I know a lot of things (as most people do). Most of it is useless knowledge not worth writing about, but a lot of it is tragic and dark. Stuff that no one really wants to read. Stuff that I don’t feel comfortable with sharing. And then the other stuff I know is the happily ever after crap. Ok, so finding and falling in love with an amazing husband and having a beautiful child together isn’t crap, but it doesn’t make for a great novel. Stories like ours are a dime a dozen in the romance section at borders. Not to demean our love story, but its true. Romance is a ridiculously large genre. And they are all different variations of the same story. Meet, fall in love, something bad happens, get back together and live happily ever after.

I’m struggling with having an original thought. I’ll be in the midst of brainstorming this awesome story line only to come to a screeching halt when I figure out that the story I was making in my head is actually a story I read 10 years ago. So frustrating. As someone aspiring to be a writer and looking to get something published, plagiarism is not something I want to be associated with. Even a little bit. No thanks.

So until I have a dream worth writing about, I will continue to write my thoughts. I have a list of things I don’t want to write about. But I feel like in making that list, I have limited my creativity. And I’m not all that creative to begin with, so limitations just won’t bode well for me.

I may have found a muse in Robert Pattinson. Not because of what he looks like (although I do have to agree with the majority of the female population...hes a hottie), but his song on the twilight soundtrack just does it for me. Which is odd because I’m not usually into music like his, but I find it beautiful and inspiring. At least today I do. Tomorrow might be another story.

Tomorrow it might irritate me.