Well nice to see you again.
It’s hard to break through the fuzz of the day to set some time aside for myself to do anything, much less write what I want to. Even now I’m distracted by the thrum of the TV.
I’ve been wanting to get back into writing lately. Inspired by You, a Netflix original. Funny to feel inspiration from a show about a stalker, but his cynicism in poetic storytelling is both funny and accurate. The problem is, and always will be, time. Time and money.
My nice cushy job doesn’t bring in enough for us to stop worrying about finances, so I continue to work my fingers to the bone. I used to be so proud of myself for having that hardworking attitude. Now I realize that’s the theme in this country — destroy yourself to take care of others. What an American dream.
I miss the days I was able to practice yoga, meditate, do ANYTHING to care for myself without thinking “there’s something else I need to be doing” in the back of my mind. Frankly, it’s exhausting. I feel like I’m expending so much energy just picking up the trail we leave through the house. It’s overwhelming just thinking of adding another human to this mess.
I’ve been thinking about that more and more though. As someone who said she never wanted kids, I’ve come a long way. I’m still unsure — I’m a baby with pain and I’m not actually good with children, but I know it’s what Andrew wants. I feel it’s the next step, and I’m not as afraid of it anymore. There are plenty of other things to be afraid of.
The future is a syndicated shitstorm in my head. Staying in PA, moving to be closer to my family, but then where will the kids go to school and where will we work and will we have enough money and what about traveling and doing it all in one shot. What about making sure you’re happy along the way.
I used to always envision myself typing away at a computer in a bright yellow room with a beaded entryway at a beach house. Still living a modest life. Enjoying what I’m doing. I never knew what I was writing, I just knew I was writing. Yawning and stretching as I get up to hug the man of my dreams on a sleepy Saturday morning as the golden godly rays of morning sunshine streamed through a window.
And I had that yellow room, and I still do. I hung beads on my childhood bedroom door, I painted my childhood bedroom yellow, and hung twinkle lights to inspire my thoughts, because light and beauty inspire the masses. We moved into our new house and even here I have a yellow room, this time with a desk and lamp but also a yoga mat because life is a balance. Can anything be tacky when it’s what brings you back to your childhood dream, your life’s vision?
But what they never tell you is living in fear is not the same as living a modest life. I’m not choosing to live a modest life because I want to right now. When it comes down to it, I would still choose a quieter life, but I don’t know anyone who would choose to live with the anxiety of how big will that next paycheck be.
Once so enthralled with the idea of becoming a writer, I eventually became intimidated. I blame my senior english class for that — looking up realistically what authors make scared me out of wanting to stake my livelihood on whether or not someone thought my writing was worth something. But as I get older, I wish I would’ve taken the shot anyway. Everything anyone does is judged by how well they do it. Can I pick up legalese quickly so we can jump in to getting the work done? Am I good enough at X to achieve Y. My livelihood is already at stake based on my skills — why shouldn’t I have just tried my hand with writing?
Especially while I have the time. Now between having a full-time job and a house, I don’t have time for much. Next step is a wedding and babies, both expensive and time-consuming. The only reason I have time today is I have a half-day at work.
Being an adult is much more boring than I thought it would be. I’m excited to have found the love of my life, but would I appreciate if he did the dishes more often? Of course. I love having this house, but would I enjoy not having to pay any bills? Absolutely! As a 23-year-old would I love to spend my money on dying my hair a crazy color and traveling to an exotic place? You betcha! Instead, I’m sitting on my couch in a robe after downing an entire bag of chips, thinking about how I have to go back to work in 15 hours. I’m surprised how easily I have slipped into the adult-that-dreads-work-and-battles-menial-depression-every-day lifestyle.
Like I said, I never expected an extravagant life. I just thought I’d be happier right now. Then again, don’t all great artists go through a blue period? Maybe this is mine, as I sit in my blue robe.
One of these days I will have to try my hand again — when I have the money to rebuy my subscription to Word. And maybe I’ll have the courage to dye my hair blonde like I’ve always wanted. Move to a house on the beach with the love of my life, typing away in that yellow room, spinning yarns someone actually wants to read, something that actually touches someone’s heart and soul and changes them for the rest of their lives or at least the rest of that afternoon — the way books spoke to me as a child. Maybe I’ll finally say something worth listening to. Or maybe I’ll move to the mountains so I can be snowed in all my life. I guess the bright side to 23 is everything’s still a mystery.
But 24 is coming soon. And I still fight with myself on what I want, what I need, and what I feel. I write for me.
Now I must go shower so I can continue to take care of me.