Enough

Her car was pregnant with her belongings, the sidewalk next to her passenger side door occupied the remaining bags that wouldn't fit in. She had done enough shoving and pushing for one lifetime, spent enough time trying to calculate how to make things work and fit, but it was no use. She had packed the most important items.

She sat in the driver's seat, cellphone to her ear. Did she have a place to stay for at least tonight, but even better, long enough to get it together? To find a place she could claim as hers? Could she at the very least find someone to help her get the rest of her things that littered the sidewalk, and offer to host her belongings - if not her - for the time being?

She wondered where she would take her next shower as the phone rang dead to each number she dialed. It was an early Friday afternoon, and she consoled her lonely soul by telling herself everyone was still at work. Or, just as possible was the fact they were sick of the bullshit. She promised each time it was the last time, yet she hadn't had enough when she made those empty promises and threats. This time she was sure, but feared she used up her sympathy cards.

She caught her bloodshot eye in the rear view mirror. She hoped he wouldn't pull up right now, worse yet, she hope none of the neighbors would come over and offer their assistance. She didn't need emotional support, she didn't need a referral to an organization to help her. She needed a semi-permanent place to stay while her scars healed and her bruises faded. A place she use to transition from her old life to her new life.

Defeated, she opened her car door and tried one last time to stuff the remaining bags in, desperately rearranging the items in her car that already had a place to make the soon-to-be abandoned items fit. Although they were just things, she felt for these inanimate objects. She knew what it was like to be left on the outside, to feel neglected and like a piece of garbage waiting for the Saturday morning pick up.

Her watch told her she didn't have much time. Like a child, she said goodbye to the things she had to leave behind, opened her car door, and drove. She just drove. She'd promised herself this time she had enough. That's why she packed more than she ever did all those times before. She wouldn't have a reason to come back. There was nothing left to claim in that god damned house, and she certainly wasn't going to ever reclaim her dignity in that god damned relationship.

Her phone rang, it was her mother. Tears stream down her face, her black and blue eyes hurt as the tears squeezed through.

"Mama?"

Everyday is Dress-Up Day

With Halloween just around the corner, and no idea what I will dress up as, I began searching for some ideas. Many people use Halloween to express their inner selves, a chance to really "do" themselves up. It's quite interesting concept to see what someone will select for a costume. They carefully select an identity to possess for one evening.

I think what or who a person chooses to be on Halloween can say a lot about their real identity. The guy who wears the Breathalyzer has an obvious statement about his ambitions for the evening, and will get a lot of high-fives from the guys. The couple dressed as the ball and chain could me making a funny statement about the actual state of their relationship. The dog dressed up as the lion possibly wants to feel fierce for one night. What really intrigues me is the person who goes all out in their ghoulish attire, so much so you can barely recognize them. What is their costume saying about them? That for one night they want to be feared and unknown? It's so fascinating to me, possibly the best part about seeing everyone.

Halloween is not the only day we put on a costume, however. Every morning most of us, unless residing in a nudist colony, wake up and select a costume from our wardrobe for the day. Some of us visit the make-up dapartment next, carefully concealing our imperfections and enhancing our best attributes, sometimes even creating the illusion that something is natural, like false eyelashes, high arched eyebrows, or drawing a mini Cindy Crawford mole (yes, I actually read in a magazine once about women who do this).

I think it is important to recognize that we play dress up everyday, depending on the show we are starring or costarring in. A different costume is worn for work and play, for night and day.

I still am at a loss of how I will dress up for Halloween.... I'm thinking a witch, so I finally have an excuse for my recent bad behavior!

I am not advertising for any of the costume distributors I linked to. I simply did a Google search and selected the first one that came up!

Stuck on One Perception

Today I feel defeated. I have lost to the perceptions another holds which collide with the way I see things. For a moment we can all see something one way despite there being one way to interpret. Eventually, sometimes sooner than later, our cognition combined with our emotions and experience form the onlyway to see and perceive something.

Take the optical illusion for example. I am told there are two women in the picture, and at first glance I see the young woman immediately, without a doubt. Then, once prompted to look harder and find the old woman, I see her face and there is no longer a trace of the young woman. I try and try and try, but for a long time I can't see what I originally was able to. Even when I finally force myself to shift back to the original perception, the second one remains prominent, and I am only able to find the young woman for a moment before she transforms into my new perception.

We are all like this. Most of the time everything is an illusion. Conversations we have had with someone just moments ago are repeated by one another to different people in completely different ways, based on our new perception. Sometimes I am horrifically astonished by this, by how I can remember an event that just happened so differntly from the only other person involved. What's worse is when the other person and I share a common history, a close emotional bond. I feel cheated. Maybe they do too.

Memory work begins with perception of an event. As I am in conversation, I am encoding the memory, as is the other person. Current emotions, context, and surroundings, will determine how each person will successfully - or unsuccessfully - encode the memory.

Today I have been defeated, although I don't know how or why this specific person in my life would chose to challenge our bond. I am deeply hurt, and apparently so is she. I find myself replaying our conversation over and over, but come up with the same memory. Just yesterday, moments after, she accepted this perception. Today, I suppose, the original interpretation does not serve her needs and my recollection, feelings and author-ity are sacrificed for it.

Erasers and the Schoolyard

"I think we all wish we could erase some dark times in our lives. But all of life's experiences, bad and good, make you who you are. Erasing any of life's experiences would be a great mistake." -
Luis Miguel, is a Mexican singer, producer and songwriter. He was won 5 Grammy's.

Often we try to erase something from our past, but then there are all those shavings. We try to brush them off our slates with bare hands, only to find they stick to our sweaty palms. We try to blow them away with the strongest breath we have in our lungs, but somehow they always wind up on our clothes. Those shavings stick to us because they belong to us and we can never rid of them.

Erasers are only rubber, and what happens with rubber, per the old schoolyard taunt? It's bouncy and anything you try to put on it will undoubtedly come back to you. You can try to furiously erase until your palms are pink with blisters and you are scratching metal against your slate, but there are always those shavings, always finding a way to stick to you.

Instead of trying to erase something, I have learned to put it back on the shelf for a later date, a day when I feel strong and ready enough to work on it. That day may not come for a long time, but at least I know it is there for me to return to when I decide I am ready to face it.

I am Privileged

"With narrative ethics, we must consider who is able to tell a story and who has the ability to listen," warns Tony E. Adams in his journal piece, A Review of Narrative Ethics. I have been researching ethical responsibilities and guidelines for writing an autoethnography - a narrative piece. In my opinion, the question of who has narrative privilege is at the core of ethical practices when telling our own stories.

We own our stories, and at the same time those stories are owned by someone else. We are all actors in each other's stories, and it is important that the privilege of telling about someone who plays a role in our story - in essence, creating them for our audience - is a privilege we practice responsibly as narrative writers. Even in everyday conversation we ought to be aware of our narrative privilege when having conversations. Essentially, when telling a story whether verbally or written, we are constructing it based on our experiences and our acceptance or denial of cultural ethics, morals, and beliefs. Our stories are constructed based on our current identity, based on current circumstances, and motivated by our future desires and pursuits. Not only is there a story behind everything and every person, there is a reason and motivation behind every story.

I have narrative privilege. Although I don't have the luxury of writing full time or even being paid (yet) for my work, I am privileged. I have the ability to read, to write, to compose grammatically and well enough for others to understand, absorb, enjoy. I have skills as a scholarly writer as well as a writer for personal pursuits. Because I attend college, know how to use a computer, I have the privilege of reaching others and gaining feedback for my writing.

Although I am privileged, my stories may not be told the way the other actors in them would have remembered them and told them. This is why I carefully meditate on each story, and spend more time thinking about the events I want to record before I actually commit them to paper. Paradoxically, I try not to over think them because I don't want to alter them, as I believe a story changes each time it is remembered or revealed.

Tonight, as I write the personal narrative pieces for my autoethnography and put aside the scholarly research component, I consider my narrative privilege and realize that it's my prerogative to recollect and tell to the best of my ability.

The Truth of My Purpose when My Purpose is Truth

As I think about the project I am currently creating, I realize I need to answer the question: Why am I telling this story?, to even begin, continue, and complete it. The project is a narrative piece and when and through writing my narrative I am making meaning out of the story and of myself. I am recreating history based on the past, present, and future. What function does this particular story serve to me at this particular moment?

Is the story I am currently narrating the one I want to live in? Not only is there a responsibility to an audience when writing a narrative, there is also a tremendous responsibility to oneself. Am I being responsible with my identity, with the way I want to tell and live within this particular story? Or, do I have a choice: Is there a chance that I can tell the story one way, but chose to live another once the story is out of my system? Once I have purged myself of the story - the old me - will I be able to recreate the narrative because of the practice of purging the most recent version?

I do know that one of the reasons I want to tell my story is for others to hear, learn, and possibly relate to it. I want to make a connection with others, to prevent them from living my story and for those who have lived a similar story, to offer hope and companionship.

I suppose as I continue writing what matters most is that I am currently telling my story in the most honest and truthful way I know how at the very moment my fingers move feverishly over the keys. If a stroke doesn't feel right, I can erase it and rewrite it. If I come back three weeks from now, read the narrative, and realize the story, the beliefs within the story, no longer parallel and express the purpose of sharing my story, I have author-ity to recreate it. But, first, I need to clearly identify my purpose, my reasons,for writing this story.

Policing the Road

"Stand up to your obstacles and do something about them. You will find that they haven't half the strength you think they have."

- Norman Vincent Peale, was a Protestant preacher and author (most notably of The Power of Positive Thinking) and a progenitor of the theory of "positive thinking".

Identifying what the obstacles are can be overwhelming. Often I find myself blaming everyone and anyone and everything and anything for something I don't do that I really want to accomplish. There's not enough time in the day. I have too much homework. There is this family function I have to go to. I work too many hours at a job I don't feel proud of. Traffic held me up. I spent the last hour and half on the phone consoling a friend in need. I have to go grocery shopping. I could go on....

I am trying to remove the "but" from my vocabulary: I would begin writing my memoir, but I have all this homework to do. I would go spend the day with my mom and sister, but I have to clean my house. I would go visit my family across the country, but I don't get paid time off from my job (and am afraid to fly!). That "but" is a very big obstacle.... Or so I thought.

I am beginning to think it isn't the "but." It is the fear behind the "but." Could I be letting fear debilitate my dreams? Even sometimes when I attempt to sit, mediate, and visualize my life exactly as I want it to be, those "buts" find their way in. I know, I am supposed to let them float through and then cleanse myself of them, but they are unwelcome, over-staying guests.

There are all these obstacles I may have created for myself - and even blamed on others. I keep picturing "Road Closed" signs and forgetting that I am the officer on detail. I get to choose and direct my own detour and alternative route. I need to accept my author-ity and create my path. I may not be able to plow through the "Road Closed" sign, but I also don't have to make a u-turn and head back the way I came.

Rewriting

I remember a picture of my mother, standing in the woods wearing a leather jacket. She was about twenty years old, and the crisp fall air fingered her blue-black hair that stood out against the orange, red, and yellow leaves. The man behind the camera was my father, and she had ridden behind him on his motorcycle that day. I looked at the image of my young mother, a young woman on the cusp of motherhood, and thought my father and her were the two most romantic people in the world: Riding a motorcycle through winding roads, finding secret treasures of red, orange, and yellow in the wind; stealing kisses and photographic images of one another.

In past life, about nine years ago, I began to attempt this novelty of romance with a man I was with. Although we had some wonderful pictures to take home, our trip to the crayola forest wasn't traveled by motorcycle. Sure, we travelled the same winding roads, got off at the same exits. We thought we were in love. Many of those trips began with an aspirin in the morning, after a night of being drunk on cheap beer, love, and hate. I always thought the trip up north to see the gifts of the fall season would unite us once again. And, for a moment, they did.

For six years I have wanted to go back to those magical woods, wanted to see the leaves change in the northern part of my state. For six years I have asked my current partner to go, and for six years we never found the time. Secretly, I don't think I was ready. Aside from a few childhood visits, he was the only one I walked those paths with. Paths that my partner and I have never traveled together, paths that I never wanted to travel with him. What my love and I have is true, and I didn't want the memories of the past to linger in the cool, crisp air, surrounding us. Extreme, I know, but when you have allowed something so beautiful to be ruined by someone else or another situation, bringing something you cherish so much to "it" seems careless.

Today my love and I decided to embark on our own journey. He, a little reluctant, having never experienced "leaf peeping"; me, sounding hopeful, encouraging the trip with the idea that we were able to spend the whole day together and get some fresh air. The sun was shining, the wind was blazing, the colors were vibrant.

I had been to each stop we made in my past life, but encouraged my love to initiate the hunt for the perfect trail, the perfect photo. He gained a true appreciation for the colors, the smells of dried leaves, the calm breeze. Watching him discover the treasures, the magic of fall in the mountains, was refreshing.

By the time we stopped for lunch, I silently decided that the leaves changing and mountain air were reserved just for the two of us. Each stop, each picture, each hand holding moment, replaced one from the past until we started writing new chapters and making the experience our own, one we created.

The day was beautiful. We all have the author-ity to rewrite our stories.

Author-ity

Over time our stories change based on reflections of past experiences and newly lived experiences. They change when people move in and out of our lives; when we meet new people and they begin to weave themselves into our stories. They change when people in our stories no longer play the roles they always had, the roles that kept the story secure and unchanging. They change when people in our stories die.

Our stories also change when new information is presented to us, when a new piece of a chapter is created by someone within our story. Do we lose our narrative author-ity when this happens? Who has the right to change our stories but the author? Who has the control to change the story? Of course, when someone tries their hand at our ink we can chose to not accept their revision, but it is difficult not to acknowledge that our perception of our story has been challenged.

Do we owe a responsibility to the unwanted collaborator to acknowledge their edits? If the story is ours, possibly not. They can live in their version and we can live in our own. Whose story holds validity? The revision may not change the events of the story but may alter the theme or feeling, and what if the original author does not accept the new them or feeling?

When we write about people - specifically intimate others who have long been a part of stories - we take the risk of starting fires. The trick is to see what is left behind, what survived, when the smoke clears.

Allow Me to (re)Introduce Myself

I created this blog sometime during my first or second semester of college. Five years after I graduated from high school, the opportunity to attend college - a dream of mine - was seized. I was in a healthy relationship with the most supportive, loving, caring, and understanding person I know, who encouraged me to fulfill my dreams. Fortunately, I am still with him and he still supports my every move.

I remember sitting in the computer lab listening to my Media Writing instructor discuss social media and blogging. At the time, I really did not know much about either, and was very apprehensive about posting anything too personal for others to read. I still had too much to hide. The instructor loved the name of my blog, and I felt that my content would never live up to the name, as I knew I would never have the ability to freely write on something so public.

Fast forward to my final semester at college: I am currently enrolled in an Independent Study in which I am further investigating narrative theory, autoethnography, and a story that I began ten years ago and one that keeps evolving every time my fingers touch the keyboard or my pen leaks secrets in my notebook.

Through my own autoethnography I have began a healing process that I denied myself for so long. Through the story and this blog, my intentions are to spread the healing of story telling, the importance of autoethnography, and the power of the stories we live and tell. Equally important to me is that through my story, which I hope to have published by the end of the semester (December), I can raise awareness and help others. People learn not only from their stories but from the stories told by others. We find somewhere to turn to when we hear a similar story to our own; we learn we are not alone. We disrobe ourselves and feel freer to live in a nudist colony of story and life sharing. Many times I have read someone else's story or listened to someone else recount a memory, and felt a connection despite never having met that person. The feeling that you are not alone, that although your story is unique to you, you can find comfort in the shared experience of others, is not only enlightening, it feels revolutionary.

So, join me and others as I share my stories, my progress, and that of others through our natural, human instinct: storytelling.

Intentions Don't Always Predict the Future

....Especially when you are not taking any course of action- any physical course of action- to get your intentions developed into success.

I am talking about my lack of responsibility with this blog. I have all the intentions of committing time to it, and yet I have done nothing. I had been planning on using this summer to start a writing career, to start a project, to find out how I can get published, and have done a little more than nothing. I had planned on submitting a work in progress to a writing contest, yet that work has not progressed, despite my best intentions. If there were simply a way that I could get all my thoughts and ideas recorded without having to actually physically do something, I know I would have at least two or three best sellers by now.

This is my issue: I never take the time to sit and write. I do not have it scheduled into my day, and I need to start scheduling it into my day. This is my problem: I feel as if there just are not enough hours in the day, as cliche as that may sound. There aren't. Especially when you are planning a wedding, starting a new job (although it is part-time), and finally trying to enjoy the sun that has decided bless us with its presence after a long and rainy June.

Today, while preparing for a training I am attending tomorrow for my new part-time job, I was reading about problem solving. How to select and reach a goal, how to avoid the obstacles, how to stay positive. It instantly made me aware of my goal to be a writer and my lack of writing in the pursuit of said writing career. Instead of saying "I want to be a writer but I have no time to write," or, "I want to be a writer but have chosen to go to the beach instead of write," or simply, "I want to be a published writer but my actions would indicate otherwise," I need to commit time to writing. I need to rephrase my thoughts, reframe my mind, and plan to add at least an hour a day dedicated to writing. This hour may end up consisting of nothing worth reading, but I will get the proverbial juices going, and hopefully, and just maybe, one day, I will write enough hours and spend enough time both inside my head and outside of it, to become published.

No Wonder....

Well, it has been a long time since I have taken any actions into my career as a writer. This is not to say that the thoughts of writing a best seller have not been on my mind. I have decided I would even settle for some simple and ill paying published pieces, simply to get my feet wet and step into the game for real. I am sick of sitting on the bench.

What am I to do? Shall I simply wait for the Universe to take over? Do I just keep thinking and envisioning myself as a successful writer and all will fall into place as planned? I love the new song by Miley called "The Climb." It is wonderfully refreshing, even if the message is delivered in a pop song by a sixteen year old. The words are magnificent, and very motivating. I am trying to keep myself on the present and focus more on my journey and less on the finish line. I had an art teacher in high school who said, "Art is a journey, not a race." I think that ten years ago, unbeknownst to me, he was giving me some sound advice for the now.

The Consistently Ambiguous Future

Most of my life is planned out: Get married, have some children, find a way to finish up college.... However, the last part holds an ambiguous future, and not because I fear I will not finish my degree. I am mostly concerned with what I will do with that degree once it is here. What will make me feel better about paying those extreme student loans is a good job, which is what would make most students who don't have parents footing the bill for their education.

I recently started training to be a mentor for first year students at my school. I think this may be a doorway to a career at the school, or at a school, but I am not sure. In a way, I hope it is. However, I also want to have a paying writing career. I don't know how to begin the latter. Do I just write a book and try to get it published? Do I attend workshops that teaches me to write a book? The last (and only) writing workshop I attended presented me with the reality that there is simply no blueprint to writing. You just do it, possibly wearing Nike shoes. And I believe this, as there are many people who just decide to write a book one day, and are able to get it published, although they have no prior experience, and did not ever intend to write a book.

What will I write about? I have a very personal idea for a memoir, but am unsure as to whether or not I am ready to tell my story about this very important part of my past life. I am afraid it may get people (possibly myself) in trouble, I worry that my family would think they failed as a support system, knowing that all these years I have been holding this intense secret. I just don't know. Do I compile all of my poetry from my angered teenage years and try to get that published? Do I write a series of personal essays? Where to start, what to do, and where I will be is so unknown, and I don't like it. I need an assignment. I need to be asked to write something, I need to be given a deadline, I need some type of direction.

In the meantime, I will be pondering all these questions, and hopefully an answer will present itself soon. I am, for the lack of a better term, craving an opportunity.

Success Without an Expiration Date

The other day it was (un)seasonably hot in New England for May. I use the (un) because we all think it is so weird when the temp hits over 80 degrees in May, however it is a yearly occurrence, almost inevitable, thus we just need to accept that it is in fact normal to have a hot day, or even string of days, in new England, in May. That is another story, and one I do not have to explain for fellow New Englanders, however.


On this very normal warm day, I was driving down the highway on my way home from a day off filled with errands. I was listening to my tunes, and just writing along in my head (which can be very distracting while driving) when I began to get concerned that my ship as a writer may have sailed and that I will never reach the success so desire. Then, my twin subconscious (I am a Gemini) spoke up and reminded me that no one is ever too old for success. There are people who do not write their best seller until they are well into what is normally considered retirement age. And not for nothing, those best sellers are often not even well known, they are just labeled as so. I felt an overwhelming fresh and new outlook on my career as a writer. It is true, I am cresting upon my later twenties, yet I need to remember that I still have time. There will come my time, success has no expiration date. No one can tell me when it is too late, not even myself. Even if I were to cease existence, I still can not control when my time as a recognized and respected writer is. It is sadly possibly that I won't make money until I am physically gone. The bonus is that my possible offspring or other family members will see it and reap the benefits of my hard work and unexpired success.

Later that day I talked with some friends about this, about how I feel as if I have enough time to really make it, to prove myself. Right now, when I say I am a writer, it may not mean anything to anyone else besides myself. I have finally accepted that this is not a problem for anyone but everyone who does not believe in me, who does not believe that I am writer, I just happen to be an unpublished and unpaid writer.

Last night my fiance and I watched Marley and Me, and in the movie Owen Wilson is a columnist. It seems as if it just may be something I could do. Actually, it is something I know I could do. I would love to own the freedom of choosing my topic, and acquiring and active reading audience. I know it would be hard work, it is difficult to be consistently creative, and even when I am not, to still gain the attention of my readers enough to ensure their return for the next column, or story.

I think this was a doorway, that this was presented to me because it is something that I could learn more about, something that I could look into. I don't think it is ironic that although I have wanted to see the movie for a long time, I actually did not watch it until after I had decided to truly pursue my passion to write. It is only a movie, but I had never thought of the columnist position, and it intrigues me.

I truly can not wait to see what the future holds, and I am sure I will be presented with enough opportunities, material and inspiration to preserve my intentions.

Back to the Original Purpose....

As of late, I have been using the blog as a sounding board, for the most part. The intent of my blogging is really to network and record my progress as a writer. Although I will have times in which I will revert to the sounding board business, I really think it is important that I focus on organizing my thoughts and my intentions as a writer. I am making it a point to start and look for more writing contests, and other places I can try and get some work published. I will also be looking into internships, as I would love to gain entry into the field view a publishing office, editor's office, etc.

I feel that writing truly is my path, as it is a familiar road. I have so many works that I completed during my teenage years, and I plan to get them together, and, hopefully, have them published in a type of personal ethnography. I the meantime, I would also like to figure out a project for this summer. I am unsure of what I want to write about. I have toyed with the idea of writing a series of personal essays, relating to a similar theme. I am also considering, starting today, to really record everything up until the wedding, which is exactly three months from today. I have a journal that I physically write in, and feel very comfortable writing my feelings in that. I begged and begged for a laptop, and still, I find myself with a pen in my hand, a cramp in between my thumb and index finger, writing away, old-school style. I feel I can be the most open and honest when I am actually writing, and not relying on a laptop or other keyboard to get my point across.

I hope that I meet some people along the way who can advise and inspire me. Today, I will attempt to truly begin my journey.

Morphing into a Nightmare

It has happened again, although it has been a long time since it has happened last.

I enter sleepy dreamy land, content with the strong and cuddly arm of my fiance wrapped around me. I feel secure, content, happy, and sleepy. We both drift off and let our unconscious' take over.

Once again, he penetrated my dreams. Practically ruining my night, and my day, for today. Every time he enters my dreamland, he poisons my soul for a little bit of time, regardless of how hard I try and fight the intrusion. I feel anxious, sad, depressed, helpless and hopeless, among other emotions when I am in this state of sleep, and usually for a little while after I wake up, with a horrific hangover from the nightmare.

It always starts out the same, it is my boyfriend (who is the love of my life, my fiance, my soul mate, my best friend), and I. We are doing some nonchalant thing, maybe at a party, maybe getting ready for the wedding, maybe just hanging out at home. Suddenly, I feel as if there is something wrong. It is as if my dream fast-forwards, and I don't even know where the rewind button is. What I do know is that something is terribly wrong with him. He has done something. Or he doesn't want to be with me. Or he is playing games with me. Or he is lying to me about something horrible. And I try, and try, and try to get him to be honest, to tell me the truth, to stay with me. I am afraid he has been unfaithful in this nightmare. I am afraid we won't get married. I am afraid that he has committed the unforgivable. And I just keep asking him, and asking him, and trying to figure it out, and crying, and spinning my engagement ring around and around on my hand, as if I can not bear to think of my body without this piece on it.


All of these emotions are very real in the nightmare, and have been very real in my past, conscious, real-life. Except my fiance has never made me feel this way, especially in the way this monster that lies in my unconscious has. In my dream, it is not even my loving fiance anymore. He slowly morphs into him and although I feel as if it is my current boyfriend, I know that physically and emotionally, it is him. And all of what I am feeling is exactly the way he had made me feel when we were part of each other's lives. When I was old enough to know better and too young to walk away.

Why does this happen? How can my perfect man turn in my dreams? At the beginning, I used to blame it on him. I would get anxious, and ask him questions regarding his whereabouts and his love for me. Then, I finally realized this is not necessarily his issue. It is an issue from my past, and although it is a part of me and therefore something we should deal with together, there is no preventing these nightmares, this intruder, from gaining entry to my unconscious.

Sometimes, as this morning, I wake up holding onto my fiance so tight, with tears in my eyes, as if I have actually just been through some horrific incident and I am so happy that he is there, and we are together.

I just want him out. I left long ago, I have no regrets. I take that back: I regret never telling anyone what I had been through, I regret not getting help when the sting was fresh, I regret not leaving sooner. Well, the last regret would not lead me to where I am today. I would have not been with my fiance had it not been for this past relationship. Although, deep down, I think our souls would have found each other, it would not have been the perfect timing it has proved to be.

A long time ago, when this nightmare was my real, everyday life, I would go and see a psychic. Someone who was a stranger, who I could confide in, and did not require a referral or follow-up appointment from my practitioner. The psychic pulled a card and asked me who the man in my life was that began with a "J." At the time, no such man was in my life. Then, she placed down the card and I see that it is a type of knight in shining armor, on a horse that is standing on its hind legs. The knight looks brave, and has a sword in his hand. The psychic tells me that the knight, the "J," will protect me, that he is my soul mate. This person will fight for me and will do whatever it takes to be with me, and love me, and stay with me. I was perplexed, and actually annoyed that she didn't have anything enlightening to say about him. At this time, I still could not imagine a life better than the nightmare I was living. I didn't think I deserved it.

Shortly thereafter, I met my "J" and he is all that the psychic predicted and more. He has been waiting to fight my battles, waiting to save my life, waiting to marry me. And now, both of us can live happily ever after.... These nightmares, this person is nothing compared to what my knight and I have.

Rags to Riches

This morning, the first morning of my school-free summer, I woke up around 8am to the sound of a weed-whacker underneath my bedroom window, and immediately, memories of my childhood flooded my thoughts. My dad liked to get up on Saturday mornings, at some God awful hour, and either mow the lawn, weed-whack, or start his Harley Davidson motorcycle, over and over again. Pure torture, even as a child I needed my sleep. I love my dad dearly, but he does have these annoying tendencies, and the noise factor is one of them. He is so noisy!

So, I got out of bed about an hour later (I know, I shouldn't complain, it is a Tuesday and I didn't get out of bed until 9am!), and opened my porch door. The noise flooded my living room. I was actually on the phone with my dad, who was talking mostly to himself about the truck he was driving (he is in construction), and not really paying any attention to our conversation. Did I mention I am not a morning person, at all? So, after we got off the phone, and I slammed the porch door shut (as if the landscapers can hear that over the racket they are making), I sat down in front of Ellen and had my breakfast.

I am annoyed this morning for another, purely irrational, reason. My dad bought his rags-to-riches (thanks to him) wife a brand new Mustang. And now they are putting leather seats in it. It is not so much that I am jealous because I want a mustang, it is more that he is spending money on her, and I don't think she deserves it. When I met her, she was a single mom, working three or four jobs at a time, totally frugal, and thought my siblings and I were spoiled brats. Now, she sits on almost twelve acres, in a beautiful home, gets her nails done, just traded in her BMW to downgrade to the 2010 Mustang, and will be getting leather seats put in this week. In her former, poorer, life, she would rag on my siblings for receiving gifts from my father, but now it seems she has joined, what she coined, the "I-Wanna" tribe. Meanwhile, I am not comfortable reminding my father that three years ago, when I went back to college, he promised to help me financially any way he could. Um, $25,000 in student loans later and God knows how much I have spent on books and supplies, and how much I have sacrificed to get my education, he has yet to contribute one penny. He would say that he has done so much for me in my past life, which he had, but helllllllllllllllllllllo, I was a child, you were to provide for me.

Don't get me wrong, I need to reiterate that I love him and truly appreciate all that he has done. This is simply a response to him buying his wife a car that she doesn't deserve. However, she will pay for this, as he will end up bitching and complaining before she knows it, talking about how much money he spent and all that. She just hasn't learned what my sister and I have: Don't ask for anything. Don't agree to take a gift. It (he) will haunt you the first time you mess up for it. The materialistic items are not worth the emotional burden that always lies just under the hood of that new, shiney car.

In a way, I hope she never learns. I told him today I would reveal my feelings about the whole situation with her and their marriage when he is too old to remember what I have said.

In real life, I don't CARE!

Being at work really reminds of just how much I don't care about what other people say, at least half of the time. I just have to stand there, behind them, listening to their stories, or, their jokes that really aren't that funny. Personal anecdotes that would be better served if told in a therapist's office. Maybe some hairdressers love this part of the job, but I don't.

Especially the self-manufactured bull shit. I am sorry, but you brought this on yourself, and now I have to listen to it every time I see you, and you expect me to agree with you, yet my morals and values won't let me. Thus, I revert to the proverbial childhood lesson: If I don't have something nice to say, I don't say anything. And I can see that they are looking for my approval, to be in agreement with their recent idiotic decision, or to feel that their soon-to-be-ex-husband really is an asshole, yet, all I can see is that there are two sides to that story. The worst part is that I have this insane memory, which means that I know:

1. When they are lying.
2. When I know that there is some situation in the past that brought this on.
3. That they really aren't as great of a person as they try to come across.
4. That they are a bullshit artist, manic, trying to make themselves feel better.

I have to put on this act, as if I am really interested or feel bad for them, which is totally out of character for me. In real life, and my friends and family and boyfriend know this, I am a bitch, and I will tell you if I think you are a freakin' idiot who creates problems for yourself. Or, I will let you know I am uninterested in what you have to say, or that you told the story a different way, or that you should seek therapy.... AND SOON.

I do have some really, really great clients, but not enough to make up for the others. It takes years off my life I think, every time I have to bite my tongue. Some nights, on my way home when I call my mom, she will ask how my day went, and I simply say, "I have a mouth full of holes," and she knows I have been biting and chewing the inside of my mouth, just so I still have a job the next day.

Lastly, I hate when I am obviously busy doing something, like studying or on my laptop, or blogging, and the girls think it is a great time to tell me some story, or just talk bullshit. Listen, I am busy. My face is buried in a book. I am not getting paid hourly, therefore when I don't have a client in my chair it is my time. Let me be. And they know it, they admit that they are bothering me. I love them almost like family, so I know I can be honest, but sometimes, they just don't get the hint. Helllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllloooooooooooooooooooo I am not even looking at you, and I am "Uh-ummming" you to death. I am not listening. (Honestly, it is happening right now!)

What I consider a BIG NIGHT

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.... I took my last final for the semester today. That feels good.

One thing I have never understood, however, is why students are expected to meet deadlines and follow through, and professors are often exempt from such responsibilities. For example, in my class on Tuesday, we were supposed to have received our grades for the end of semester paper we wrote. Unfortunately, the professor has been too busy with other things, and did not place our grades in our digital dropbox as expected. Furthermore, we have yet to receive our homework and comments on it from over two weeks ago. I happen to like the professor, so I am not bashing him whatsoever, in fact, this is common practice among professors. It makes me want to ask, "Well, if you are too busy to grade all those papers and assignments because you have other students and other classes, why give out so many assignments?"

I had a professor a few semesters ago that I really got into it with over this subject, and it was no secret that I totally despised her. She would give us these incredible homework assignments, and then never return them to us on time. She would have so many excuses: other classes, sick, family things, blah, blah, blah. I literally told her on our class webpage that as students, we have other obligations too, and why are we not allowed the same privilege of saying that we are just too busy? I was a little stressed that semester, working 35 hours a week and taking four 4-credit courses, but I managed to complete all assignments on time and get an A in all four classes.

So, tonight when I logged on to my school's website and saw that neither professor had posted grades, I felt a little "urrrrrrr" rumble inside of me. It is a sick game they play, I have been studying my ass off and can not wait to see how it all paid off, yet I have to wait for their life to come together before I find out how well I did. And I am paying up the ying yang to go to school! I should be expecting more from them, not vice versa!

Because school is over for the summer, I can focus more now on our wedding which is at the end of the summer. Today marks 99 days until the wedding! I had actually planned to start a blog about the wedding 100 days before it, but this week has been too hectic with (uh-um) studying for my finals and working. However, I am super psyched about the wedding!

And, lastly, the icing on my bittersweet cake: tonight is the season finale of Grey's Anatomy.... My favorite show. A show I never thought I would watch, and have been hooked since the first time I caught an episode, mid-season the second year....

I have my glass of wine, nice a chilled and ready for consumption, my fiance is about to change the channel from his basketball game he is watching (he is the best, no man would abandon his basketball game on his big TV to let his girlfriend watch her nightly soap), and I am ready to go! So, if you are tuning in tonight to the show, enjoy, and wish me luck on my exam scores!

A little bit of smoke has cleared....

Well, well. I decided to take a few moments away from studying for my finals to do a blog search for blogs related to my intentions. I came across three, and, once I have more time, I will go through them more thoroughly. I basically just read enough to ensure they did not contain content unrelated to information I seek, but I still need to refine my search and really seek out what it is I am looking for from them. They are:

http://www.pw.org/

http://www.namw.org/

http://www.placesforwriters.com/

Now, the fact that I have not allowed myself enough time to go through these blogs/websites makes me realize that I may be self-handicapping. We, as humans, self-handicap constantly, some people do so more than others. The definition from one of my psychology books, "Social Psychology", states that self handicapping are: "Behaviors designed to sabotage one's own performance in order to provide a subsequent excuse for failure" (p. 77).

Self-handicapping is essentially the practice of making up excuses, performing actions and displaying behaviors that would otherwise offer a readily available explanation to why one did not do as well as they thought they would. In class, one of the examples given was the student who refuses to study for a class, and then ends up getting a bad grade. Well, he self-handicapped by not studying. A better, more calculated example would be when someone is going to write a story, or a paper, and insists to her reader that it is "not that great, anyway," or that she, "rushed into writing it, so who knows what others will think." By setting up this attitude for the reader, the writer is protecting herself from feeling like a failure in the event the story is rubbish. On the other hand, self-handicapping can work to her benefit because if the story is phenomenal, she will be praised for creating something so effortlessly. The catch is usually that the person did in fact work hard, but reported not, just to avoid any discomfort that may arise or in order to prevent any damage to one's self esteem. I could come up with many other reasons, but I won't. basically self-handicapping=excused behavior. It is a way to "lower expectations" (p. 78).

The whole point of this rant is that I am self-handicapping right now, and I know it. I could take the time to go through these websites, but I was searching for them while I was taking a break from studying, so I did not really have the time to find out more information that could, and probably would, benefit my writing career. In addition, instead of taking fifteen minutes to blog about it, I could have been going through the websites.... And why not do it now? Well, I have to go and exercise. Tonight we are going to a show, and I only have so much time before I have to get all gussied up for the show! Fortunately, I am trading one evil self-handicapping for another: I used to come up with any excuse not to exercise, but now I often use exercising as my self-handicap excuse. I don't want to mess up my routine now, and I am trying to stick with it the best I can.....

Off to exercise.... No time to write....