Tag Archives: writing

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Midnight Baking, Love Poetry, and Not Sleeping.

It is 5:12am and I haven’t been to sleep, per say. I took a nap at about 9pm until midnight. I’ve been awake with a whirring brain since then. I think my voodoo of Selina is finally starting to come back some. I midnight baked, like the old days, and then started a new story. I am toying with a new concept. Who knows how it will work out, but writing a potential failure is better than not writing at all.

Speaking of potential failures: I decided to change up the look of the blog for a bit. It is so girly it is almost cool. I’m sure I will get complaints and will revert back soon enough, but this was fun.

Speaking of writing: I wrote a nerd-tastic love poem. No, I didn’t specifically write it for the Viking. I wrote it more for all of the kooky nerds in love. There are so many more variations on this I could write, and I probably will toy with them. This one was crazy fun to write. Tell me what you guys think.

The nerdiest love poem ever

There might be a reason I stopped writing poetry

I’m going to dash off and either be epic or pass out. Right now, I’m feeling either is a possibility. It just feels incredible to be feeling the crazy writer vibe again. This was a short blog. I might write you more later.

 

 
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*Cringe*

HEY! Napping is a VITAL part of the writing process

Note on the picture: I have a pink IPod like the one the pig has. I hate it with a passion. On down moments from writing, I will plot new and innovative ways to bring its destruction.

So, I am in a strange position that I haven’t been in a long time. I should have foreseen it, but you know how me and common sense work. We have a fleeting love affair every once in awhile, but mostly we remain with our orbits barely intersecting in places. For the first time in a long time, I know someone is reading my blog that is new to me, and I actually give a crap what they think of me.

I know people read this. Most people I know who read it, I know are aware I am this strange person bumping through the world, and I know you guys love me anyway. The rest of the people who read this are lurkers or strangers. It is easy to be all brave and militantly open when you know people either love you, or they are strangers. I haven’t been worried about a reaction to a blog since “Strong Woman”, and suddenly I find myself thinking over everything I have written over the months, and covering my face with my palm.

I was thinking about what to write today, and I always came back to this thought. I had this safe but interesting post planned in my head about me trying to stick to this new idea of discussing and listening instead of debating. That seemed so safe, but so very not what I am about.

I have this aspect of my personality that I play chicken with myself. I have a lot of weird fears and insecurities, like everyone, and sometimes I bump up against one, and I dare myself to push it. I don’t know if this is a brave driving force thing or a stupid thing. It is probably both. I am forever scootching myself to the edge of my comfort zone just to prove to myself that I can. I see the potential for disaster.

So, the safe and sane thing would be to try to write a really cool treatise on how civil discourse works. Instead I am playing chicken with myself, and writing about feeling exposed and crazy.

Truth is, this blog is exactly me. That is the point of this blog, to be unabashedly me, because I know no matter how strange I feel, I know there are a lot of people like me. I wouldn’t suggest anyone else in the world being quite this open. I know I am taking this to an extreme, but I do that on purpose. I also know that ideally we reveal ourselves slowly to the people around us; giving the not so awesome bits wrapped with the really cool parts. All of my bits are out there, without awesome bacon wrappings.

The good thing is that I do know that anyone new who reads this, and still wants to be in my life, knows all of the crazy insecure bits, and still likes what they see. Anyone who reads this and flees, wouldn’t work with me anyway.

It still doesn’t keep me from cringing a little. Just a little though.

 
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Small Things

On it, Bitch

This really has nothing to to do with anything. It just makes me happy

I’m reading The Hunger Games again. I might read it a third time in a row. I don’t know.  I understand it is insane to read a book three times in a row, but that’s how I roll.

I was feeling pretty bleak today. I was feeling “crying in the shower” bleak today.

Today is the anniversary of the break-up. I don’t miss the relationship, by any means, and this year has been incredible. I have had so much growth, and I am more genuinely happy than I have ever been. (I know that is strange to say when I just admitted to crying in the shower, stop judging.) I felt stupid for even letting myself note it.

I have also been feeling frustrated with myself that nothing has been happening with my writing. I feel like I should some how have accomplished more, and time is running out.

Any writer who tells you that they don’t want to have their stuff read is either full of shit or a total nutbag. Writers write for two reason: we have things in our heads we need out, and we want people to read them. We want people to read and appreciate our stuff. If you write and have no desire to write something that people will read, then you aren’t a writer. You are someone who happens to write. Well, that but only less judgy and harsh, so let me attempt to explain.

I think of it more as someone who is really into golfing (or any other sport/hobby/craft). They love to golf. Golfing makes them feel whole, and when they golf, they feel a deep connection to their inner them. I think most people have this feeling about something. This doesn’t make them a professional golfer.

It is more than about making a living writer, which would be glorious I won’t lie, but the idea that this is something you want to use to interact with the world. I want people to read my stuff, not just to be famous, or make money, but to feeling like I am making some sort of impact. I write to put stuff out there because of this crazy belief that I can make people laugh, feel, or have some sort of impact on them.

I haven’t been feeling that lately. Objectively, I know I am a better writer than I have ever been. I am learning about who I am as a story teller. I am creating ideas at a rate I never have before, and I am looking at everything I read differently. Logically, I know I am getting better. Today, I just feel like I am banging my head on a wall and making no impact on anything, and any moment I am going to pass out with a bloody forehead.

So, today I sent Tina a text that said, “I feel really bleak today. I don’t want to blog today because I know it will come out really bleak.”

She called me back.

She told me that anyone would feel the anniversary. I felt better.

She told me she felt the same way about her photography that I do about my writing. I felt better.

We raved with each other about The Hunger Games. I felt better.

She promised me an eventual drunken night at a quiet piano bar that requires a cab ride home. She said, “Sometimes to get back into your own head, you need to go completely out of your own mind.” Simple brilliance.

I don’t know why having someone understand why I feel so bleak today made me feel less bleak. Well, I do. It is the same reason I write this blog. Sometimes we all need to know that someone else gets why we feel the way we do in order to be able to handle this business of trying to be happy and live. It is odd that sometimes you have to be sad in order to be happy, and if you avoid or ignore the unpleasant you can’t ever really feel the good.

So, my friends, fight to be happy and to be yourself. They are one in the same. If you are willing to love and accept, you will find love and acceptance, including yourself. Shit happens and you have no control over it, but you can decide how you want to handle.

Those are my lessons from this year. Well, and that drunk texting is bad. Sorry again, Tina.

 
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What I Did Last Night (Read The Hunger Games)

So instead of writing last night,  I sent out my first submission letter, which felt like a huge deal, even though it probably isn’t. I thought about my where to go next with my story. I also read The Hunger Games By Suzanne Collins. I consider it working, sorta.

I have accidentally started reviewing things on my site. It is unintentional. It started with my adventures in reading Twilight. I don’t think I would normally have written about this book, except I found myself trying to explain it on Facebook. By the way, I’ve finished the Twilight Saga. I’ve decided that I had a lot of fun making fun of the first two, but I felt mean afterwards. I didn’t like them because they were romances, heavy teenage romances. I am not exactly the audience for that. The last two had some interesting ideas, and the secondary characters played a far bigger role in the story, giving me characters to relate to. I don’t think I can be made to watch the movies though. I am just not that into pretty people.

The cover of the book The Hunger Games

The cover of the book in question.

Anyway, back to the book in question, my sister lent me this book, and I started reading it last night at about 11pm and finished it at 6am. I read it straight through, that quickly, for a few reasons.

First, it is a fairly uncomplicated read. I don’t mean that in a bad way, either. Some writers get very involved in their own worlds when they write that they have a hard time making the story accessible for those of us who don’t live there, too. I also think some writers get off on how awesome they are when they write books that require the reader to have post-it notes to keep things straight. I think it says a lot for Collins writing that she allows her readers to rush through an unfamiliar world without feeling lost. I think this is because of the strength of the main character, and we follow her bewilderment at the entire situation.

Second reason: the main character is great. Actually, I think all of the characters are great. I love that Collins is able to write first person point of view so well. First of all, first person is hard to do well. I think that is one of my main gripes about that aforementioned series is that the main character is not someone I can slip myself into (that sounds so dirty), and in the first person point of view, that character is vital. I can’t fathom Collins ability to show us how other characters feel when the main character is oblivious to them herself. I don’t know if non-writers will be as impressed as I was, but, I respect the writing immensely.

Third reason: it is a dystopian  novel. I love me a good dystopian novel. I read Harrison Bergeron by Kurt Vonnegut in 10th grade and I have been hooked since. (Dystopias novels about worlds that are heavily controlled by the state under the premise of protecting the people. Some good examples are 1984, Brave New World, or Demolition Man though it is technically a movie.) Not only is it a dystopian novel, but it is a dystopian novel for GIRLS. The only other dystopian book for women  I can think of is Hand Maid’s Tale, but The Hunger Games is written for teenage girls. I can’t express how amazing it is that there is a sharp, politically relevant, gritty, smart book written for the teenage female audience. I would have killed for this when I was a teenager.

I guess I really, really dug the book. I didn’t realize how much until I started writing about it. Now, just to get my hands on the other two.

 
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Writers are whiny bitches.

My father taught me many wonderful things and filled my childhood with strange and wondrous stories that I probably can’t go into here. If we know each other in real life, ask me about the anaconda or the princess and the eunuch. (BTW, I didn’t know what a eunuch was for many of the years he told me that story, so I just pictured a professional wrestler in Aladdin pants, and I was TOTALLY wrong.) I am pretty sure he is where I developed my love of story telling.

He also taught me how to castrate a man with my bare hands and to never turn your back on someone you have shot unless you have put two rounds in their chest and one in their head. My dad is full of bad assery.

More importantly, I watched Dad work hard, every day. My dad’s purpose in life was to take care of his family and his dogs and he still does it. His work ethic was, and still is, incredible. (I see it in my sister, and it is one of the many things I respect and love about her.) In their worlds, you work. It doesn’t matter what is going on in your life, you work. Sick, hurt, depressed, it doesn’t matter, they work.

It is quite inspiring actually.

It is also something I wish I could emulate. I try, I really do, but I am a whiny bitch. I think it is a thing all freshly minted writers feel.

I have been writing my entire life, and I have been told my entire life that I need to be a writer, but until late this summer, I never considered ever actually deciding to write professionally and not do anything else. It becomes a completely different critter when you make that decision. It changes from something you do when you have time and inspiration to your job.

You might not get paid for it. Others might not understand what you do, or grasp that you are actually working, but it is just that, a job. And, in the example of my father and sister, if you have a job, you do it no matter what.

I sit down in front of my computer most nights, I would say an average of five a week, and intend to write. Some weeks I do great work. I work for 5-8 hours a night many nights in a row. When I am deep into a project, I can work for days without days off and lose all sense of time.  It is a glorious manic rush.

Other nights, though, I do everything but work. I play games, surf the interwebz, read, anything. Sometimes it is an inability to focus, or simple procrastination. Other nights I will try to work and have a hard time getting into it. The cliche about immersing yourself into the world of your story is a cliche because it is true. Writers have to inhabit whatever world they are writing at that time.

Supa man

This is how I spend many nights.

Sometimes finding that immersion is damn near impossible for me. Stress, moodiness, lack of sleep, physical discomfort can all leave me blinking at my screen. If you throw other people in the mix, it can be even more difficult. Every time you make a writer come out of their world for any amount of time, you have broken hard fought immersion and set them back. If a writer is in the middle of a manic rush period and you take them away for a significant amount of time, they are going to have to work to get it back.

This irks me to no end. My father never missed work because he “wasn’t feeling it” or “stress was killing his mojo.” I feel like I should sit down and write no matter what. Anything short of a productive night is wussing out. That isn’t how it works, though.

I am finding I am getting better at re-immersion and I can do it quicker. I don’t know if it is practice or that I am writing more interesting stuff. I think it is just on the job training. You can read all the books, take all the classes, or search the entire internet, but the only way you learn your process is by doing it. Others can offer you ideas or hints that might help, but ultimately being a writer is all on the job training, and you have to train yourself. It is kind of screwed up.

Hug the whiny bitch writers in your life. Also, maybe provide them with booze.

 

 

 

 
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Rush, Rush!

Yes, I do mean to quote that Paula Abdul song that had Keanu Reeves in the video. Or, I could mean that I messed up my shoulder a bit earlier in the week and pissed it off when I exercise, so I had to lay down to let it chill out and fell into a mini-coma. Now I have 23 minutes to craft awesome! I can do it! (Let us just not analyze the fact that I am the only person who cares that this late blog will be published before 12am cst. It matters to me, dangit.)

 

First things first: A snap shot of the search terms that lead people to my site:

 

Three things funny about that:

1) apparently my site is all about the corgis

2) Really? Take it up the butt? I think one of the few things I have never discussed is backdoor lovin’ and now I can’t even say that anymore. I think I have something about me that just screams kinky even though I never really talk about sex. (I do have standards of classy… Or, I am just terminally single and talking about it makes me sad.)

3) My favorite though is the “pictures of the fat bitch guinea pigs, please.” I get this image in my head of a sassy, chubby guinea pig telling it like it is and doing the z snap. I don’t know why this amuses me but it just does.

On another note:

I was watching a documentary of all of these cities like Paris and Berlin in the 1920′s. These cities were sexy, hopping places full of awesome before the stock market crash and that dickbag Hitler. I realized I am totally doing this writer thing all wrong.

I am kind of meek and apologetic about it, when I should really be all like “I’mma writer, and artist, I am one of the sexy, cool kids.”

Next time someone asks me what I do, I should stick out my chest, look down my nose, and drawl something pretentious sounding about my art.

I mean there are some core problems here. I can’t take myself seriously enough to be pretentious, especially not well enough to make others believe me. I don’t do drugs, and even if I didn’t think me on anything more than booze would be a terrifying thing, I wouldn’t even begin to get a hold of opium. Also, I can’t get a boyfriend, much less find enough people to fill a whole orgy. No, well I probably could, but I would have to be whole lot less picky.

So, I am not cut out to be the cool, sexy kind of writer. I am stuck doing it wrong.

I am going to to be less meek about it though. Maybe I should practice cultivating an air of mysterious, writery, pouty sex kitten. I wonder if I can find instructions on the Google.

 
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Wait, It’s Saturday?

Good afternoon, morning, night, whatever. I have entered another strange period in my life where time has no meaning, and if it weren’t for blog days and sparkpeople.com telling me what day it was, I would have no clue what day of the week, much less what date. I am pretty sure I have lost track of what month I was in before. It happens when you are me.

Thursday, after I finished that blog I decided to shelve my romance novel  for a little while to work on a fantasy novel that I have been kicking around for awhile. The past several days have been a blur of me wandering around thinking about my new book. It is a fantastic feeling, if a bit disconcerting.

I will finish the first one. I have to keep telling myself that so I don’t feel like a failure, but that book and I were torturing each other.

My writing loves are blogging and fantasy. My blog is, and will always be, my first love. I believe in what I do here. I believe in fighting to bridge this strange disconnect that our society has built between our true selves and the image we are supposed to portray. I think we have lost so much beauty and joy because we are so focused on image and what others think of us. There are much worse things in life than being viewed as uncool, weird, or different, and we have forgotten that as a people. We have trapped ourselves with these ridiculous ideals of what we should be. We have also tried so hard to insulate ourselves from vulnerability that we have completely lost our ability to put ourselves out there and isolated ourselves from people. Being rejected sucks, being ridiculed hurts, but it won’t kill you, and the joys of loving yourself for who you are and being loved for your being your flawed self far out weigh any of that pain.

My other love is fantasy. Almost every story I have ever kicked around in my head has been a fantasy novel. I just love the genre so much for so many reasons. I have started so many fantasy stories but I always stop because I always felt intimidated by the magnitude of writing one. I decided to write a romance novel because I could write a crappy book and it be okay. I was aiming for cheesy crap. I think what I have is better than that and I still love many elements of the story, but I need to spend sometime on this project for a bit. I can only do things because I am supposed to do for awhile until I do what I am.

I will finish the first book. (I keep assuring myself of this.) I am not giving up because it is hard. (Another self assurance) This project switch is not a sign of failure; I did not fail. I am just diverting for a bit. (This is the shit I have to tell myself to not feel guilty. Don’t you love how neurotic I am?)

Also, switching projects means I get to buy another accordion file and I might use it to buy binder clips. I fucking LOVE office supplies. I will take any excuse I can find to buy them.  I am so strange.

Oh, my Oklahoma friends, you can sign a petition here to tell the state government we are against the personhood bill.  I am not going to preach any more about it, but I do think it is important that we know it is happening.  If you know other people in the state who would be against it, pass it on. Social media works and can change the world.

 
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Oh, Shit, I Didn’t Mean to Rant

I now run my glorious writer’s hours. I wake at 1:30pm and go to sleep at 5:30am, ish. It is great for me, because I am more awake with more energy and a better mood. I am more productive and happier. It blows because so few of my hours intersect with normal people hours. I try to crunch more stuff in the few normal people hours I have. Most days it works out. Today, on the other hand, I am rushing to get a blog in before midnight. OH FRACK 45 MINUTES. I know it doesn’t actually matter, but it matters to me. It is the principle of the thing.

So, I have a slight issue. The idea I wrote about in my last blog still hasn’t formed yet. I still have the thought bits bouncing around but I can’t quite get them stuck together in an effective way. It is like having a box of puzzles pieces, and every time you pick one piece up the connector shapes all change. I know these pieces go together, but every time I think about one aspect the path to connecting it to the other pieces blur. To make things worse, I am pretty sure I shake the damn box every time I pick it up. I am going to be super pissed if when everything clicks, it is something dumb.

The point is I have things whirling. I always have things whirling in my head, but generally I only have one thing eating up most of my brain RAM so the rest of my brain can spin on other things. Right now, I have my book I am writing, the book I want to write next, this blasted puzzle, and my lifestyle food exercise crap all spinning around using up my RAM. My focus is worse than normal. When it comes to blogging all I can think of is the things the free part of my brain rants about.

Normally I would fight it, but not tonight. I have 30 minutes to get this bitch posted so you cats are taking what you can get.

Guinea Pig awesome

A cute picture

OMG WOMEN THE STATE GOVERNMENTS WANT TO RULE YOUR REPRODUCTIVE ORGANS. My tootie is none of the state of Oklahoma’s gawddamn business. There is a personhood bill trying to go through our state congress. This would give the State of Oklahoma unprecedented rights to control what you do with your reproductive organs. I respect being pro-life (unless you are pro-death penalty then you are not really pro-life, you are anti-choice and believe that after a baby is born it is on its own, fuckers.)   This isn’t an issue of pro-life/pro-choice. This willfully giving the government the right to regulate your body parts. Things like birth control can become illegal. Some states have went as far as to introduce bills that criminalize miscarriages. We are staring down the face of allowing ourselves to be oppressed again. I am not down with my only value being my reproductive organs and turning over legal rights if I decide to use them. It is all feeling far too close to The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood.  Educate yourself.

Okay odd clarification. People are getting their panties in a wad because of Obama’s birth control stuff. The way things were originally written every employer would be required to provide birth control to their employees, even if employer is a church that is against birth control. This upset religious groups, so they are trying to fix it where the religious groups don’t have to provide the birth control but the employees can get it from the government.

I am all about birth control and women’s freedom to chose what happens with her body. I think the easier and more abundant birth control is, the better, but I am a staunch defender of separation of church and state. I have a hard time with the government asking a church to go against  a basic tenement on something like this. The women will have access to birth control still, but the lines of separation of church and state still stays clear. (I wish someone explain to some of these more rabid fundies that the separation protects religion as much as it protects the state.)

In that same vein, when gay marriage becomes universal in our country (except probably backward ass Oklahoma), I don’t believe that churches should be pressured to perform gay marriages if it is against their beliefs. I firmly believe every consenting adult should have the right to be legally married to any consenting adult that will have them. I believe that every state in our union should legally allow it. I think it is an intrusion on separation of church and state to move it any further than that. I also don’t think anyone will ever try. I am just trying to show that I can be sensible. It is a game I play.

Okay, it is 11:52pm and I have ranted enough.

 
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The Love in My Life

First order of business today: Valentine’s Day. I think most people are expecting me to be depressed or grumpy like I have been in past years. Nope, I am thankful.

Last year, I had a boyfriend and Valentine’s Day sucked worse than when I was single. If I can’t be with a man who cares as much about making me happy as I do him, I would prefer to be single.

I have had a grand total of two Valentine’s Days when I wasn’t single. One was fantastic and, one was terrible. I have had more strange and wonderful Valentine’s Days when I was single.

My first year of college, my roommate Lynsie put a note on her prized stuffed animal and knocked on the door then dashed a way. It was the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for me on Valentine’s Day.

Another year, I was at a greasy spoon diner studying for a massive Shakespeare test I had when this really attractive man asked to sit with me. I never saw him again, and if another friend hadn’t seen him, I might have thought I made it up in my own damn head. We talked for several hours about everything. It was strange and wonderful.

Tina and David took me out year before last. I wasn’t single, but I was e-dating the last ex-boyfriend, and I wouldn’t have done much otherwise. They are the reason that Valentine’s Day was wonderful. Them and the excitement I felt at being in love on Valentine’s Day. It wasn’t the boy, it was my friends and myself.

This year, I am single again. I woke up to a small box of chocolates and a card that my dad bought for me. (I managed to eat all six and still make it work in my calorie budget because I am becoming a food managing ninja, bitches.) I logged on to my game and played a character that was wearing awesome pants that Tina and Dave got for me for Valentine’s Day.  Then, I went on to Facebook and found that my friend Sara posted this:

Yet another Baby Corgi

How can you see this face and not have your heart melt?

to my page because whenever she sees a corgi, she thinks of me because they make me so happy.

I don’t know if I will ever find a husband, or have children, but I do know I will never want for love in my life. I have more love in my than some married people I have known.

Things might not work out the way I planned, but they always work out.

Second order of business: things rarely work out like I planned.

I am the queen of trying to jam a square peg in a round hole. (Make all the dirty jokes you want, I did.) I was doing that yet again.

After struggling for weeks trying to get a section done with my book, my mom pointed out to me that something was glaringly wrong, and I had to change major details on the entire last half of my book. I was a little devastated yesterday, but I knew I could handle it. Last night I was up until 5 am re-outlining the last half of my book and figuring things out. I am basically going to have to write a whole new first draft for the back half. It is daunting, and yesterday it was incredibly disheartening.  I knew I had no choice but to do it.

My choices are: fix it, making it far better in the process, or quit and not finish that book. The second choice is not happening. I am finishing the book, damn it, even if it isn’t wonderful, profound literature, I am finishing it. If I can’t find a publisher, I will put it on Amazon. Even if it doesn’t sell any copies, I will have a book out for sale.

But, I am stepping back and accepting that it will take the time it takes. I hear you, Universe, I will stop rushing shit and making arbitrary time limits. As long as I am moving forward and working hard for a goal, I will be happy with what I do.

Yeah, and it is really hard to be too devastated after writing that first section that I just wrote. It is all about perspective people. Sometimes, I need it.

Third bit of business: I have some ideas bubbling in the front of my brain but they are all half formed. They are right there but I can’t quite get them. I have a feeling I need to have a long session of mumbling to myself while doing something mindless. It is a little frustrating but it will come when it comes. Yes, Universe, I heard you, damnit.

 
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In Dreams

In general, I have really vivid dreams that play out like movies, or well-made video games. Most mornings I remember them and  slap myself on the forehead for being such a weirdo in my mind.  Sometimes they are fantastic and kind of cool, like the dream where I got sent to the future with a breeding set of seal pups to start the re-population of the oceans after mankind burned all sea life from the oceans when the entire ocean revolted in a bloody war against man. I had to sneak through a massive dilapidated  hotel complex trying to get to the ocean so I could swim these three pups to safety. At one point in the water, I was guided by a ghost whale.  I had other dreams about being an assassin slayer in an airport. I have a lot of dreams about traveling through islands. I even had one dream that the cast of Desperate Housewives were all my friend. We were pirates together until they all left me in the pirate cove.

Like I said, most of these dreams are just strange tidbits from my subconscious, which manages to be weirder than my conscious, and mean little other than I spent a lot of years in college and I desire to travel. I might also have a thing for pirates and the ocean. (I had this really cool dream about these kids on an epic quest to figure out an ancient culture that lived on their island before them, and one is the long lost queen of this supernatural culture.) It is just how my brain works. I like stories, I make them up all of the time, so why not in my sleep?

Then I have other more personal and painful dreams that can stick with me for days.

I had one of those last night. My unconscious mind flayed me open and left me bare. My unconscious mind is a total asshole.

So, I am like everyone else, a deeply insecure mess. Some of us hide it better than others, but I believe everyone has periods in their lives that insecurities eat around the edges of their lives. No matter how sure of ourselves we are, sometimes that bullshit wriggles in without warning.

It is pretty obvious that I have been struggling with insecurity for almost a year now. I don’t think it was bad,  I have had a tremendous amount of growth from that insecurity, and I have taken more steps into becoming who I want to be then I have since leaving college.  I have just had a lot of “oh, no fucking way can I do this shit” moments or moments of finding my self severely lacking. I struggle with not feeling enough all of the time. Most of the time I do a pretty good job relegating it all to the back of my brain with only random outbursts.

Until my brain gives me the kind of dream I had last night.

In my dream, I ran into a friend from college. Let me explain. In reality, I haven’t seen this friend in many years, and, honestly, I am okay with it. We had a tumultuous friendship because she was a tumultuous girl. She was also insanely insecure and like to use me to bolster her self worth. Most of the time, that just meant she would brag to me or show me how smart/pretty/flirty/sexually attractive/wild/tough she was. Sometimes, she would just make really snide comments to tear me down and make herself feel better in tearing me down. Of course I didn’t realize it at the time since I was too young and too dumb.

Back to the dream…

She showed up at a party I was throwing. Her drug use had escalated from weed and pills to harder stuff and life had been harsh on her. She moved through the party trying to be the center of attention, like she enjoyed in college, but she couldn’t get enough attention, so she walked over to the group of friends I was talking with and started to belittle me viciously.

She belittle my weight, my intelligence, my near constant single status, my lack of a paying job, everything. She ripped me down into little shreds, attacking every little insecurity I had. I stood up to her, though. Inside I still felt everything she said, but I told her off. My friends stood with me.

Later that night, everyone kind of passed out. (I don’t know, it is a dream okay.) When I woke up I knew something was wrong. I went to my computer and found my filing system wrecked. She left a recorded video telling me she hadn’t erased anything but she had added massive quantities of stuff and messed everything up. She told me that she couldn’t let my behavior stand without retaliation. She wrecked everything and I had lost my book.

I have never felt so defeated in my life.

I know it was just a dream, but it still sticks with me. Part of me still feels ripped up from her nasty words and the devastation and helplessness of losing my book.

Even in my dream, my loved ones found a way to help me make it right. I think I am so pollyanna that even in my dreams I have a hard time feeling completely lost and hopeless.

I don’t think there was a point to sharing this. It was just on my mind. /Le Shrug.

 

 
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