Along the line;

Somewhere along the line, I lost myself.  I lost the music, the art, the words – oh, the words!  I never would have thought.  Me.  No imagination.  No creativity.  No inspiration.

There must be something terribly wrong.  This is just not the way I am.  This is just not me.

My life has changed – I have changed.  What’s more, it’s not for the better.  Life, age, responsibility, money – the fighting, the loving, the fighting.  Oh, the fighting.

The hatred, the words, the hate – where does it come from?  What have I become?  Moreover, what has become of me?  With all I have been, where have I gone?

Who am I?

I am in need.

;

This is something that I have wanted to discuss for quite some time but have not felt comfortable approaching the subject.  With a little Chopin and the resolve to change my life, I feel like it is something I now would like to talk about.

*Triggering

My Face on Your Milk Carton: or, how I might disappear;

It’s a certain season and time of day that leads me to have unwholesome thoughts, and it is my car that gives validation to my impulsivity.  Alone I fall victim to my thoughts, my only company apart the music – and sometimes not even that.  Were it not for practicality doing its best to ground me, I would travel without end and with no destination in mind.

You see, it’s not a consequence of any consideration or planning, but rather an arrow on a brilliant sign set high above a highway on ramp that makes empty promises.

Pick me – pick me!” screams the silent metal, horrendously loud, ringing in my ears.

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Girl Sings the Blues (because she’s meant to);

Perhaps I have spoken about this topic before I can’t recall – but I will again.  And you can’t stop me.  I mean, I suppose you could just click past my post, but then that wouldn’t be very nice now would it, hm?

When I was a child, I always thought I was most beautiful when I cried.  I mean, yes, there is nothing like a child’s smile (I can see that now), but there is also something so beautifully compelling about a melancholic femme who so obviously bares the weight of many sorrows.  At least to me, that is the sort of person whom I would like to get to know more about, to understand, and to analyze.

There’s nothing intriguing

about a cheerleader;

Now, I’m not insinuating that I had a bad childhood – actually, quite the contrary.  The life that I was privy to was marvelous – don’t get me wrong.  But inside of me there was always something wrong.  I was always different.  At a much younger age than my peers I thought about love, about mysterious adventure, about many things that a youngster should not comprehend.

I cannot recall

ever being innocent;

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A Series of Unfortunate Events: or the plague of the emotional leeches

Recently I have been experiencing major anxiety over my relationships and interactions with my female friends.  As I posted some days ago, I seem to have taken on the role of therapist among them.  This would be okay if just one or another needed advice or a shoulder to cry on at any given time, but it has begun to eat up my whole life.  As a friend of mine put it, they’ve become

emotional leeches

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Nothing to lose: or, already lost it all–

Loss started, for me, with the death of my mother’s mother in 2007.  It wasn’t exactly sudden, although I took it very hard.  She was only 61 and, apart from her Emphysema, extremely healthy.  I will always remember the click and whir sound her breathing apparatus made as she struggled for breath in bed over her last days.  She wasn’t even a smoker.

We were always like two peas in a pod.  Referring to the interests we shared, my mother always said, “It skips a generation.”  It was true – my mother never took any interest in our hobbies.  She sewed, crocheted, beaded, and knitted among other activities – all which she passed on to me.  My Nana was always so proud to show me off to her stitch-n’-bitch groups.  She had also participated in the WAF program which made her one of the first active-duty women in the US Air Force…
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The Great Depression: and The World Standard

At what point do you admit that if it’s you against the world that you must be wrong about something If you are constantly angry, if you constantly feel slighted, if every day is a fight – at what point do you stop to think: 

I must be

wrong

about something —

For every four days of fighting, you have two of apologies and one that really doesn’t seem so bad.  Then the final night passes, and it all starts again from the beginning like a broken record that keeps spinning the same lilting melody.  Your life becomes this daunting, unfulfilling thing, and you can’t help but to wonder why?

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You know, it’s just music —

I’m on Youtube absorbing videos of Woodstock.  Janis’ words, 

Music’s for grooving man;
music’s not for puttin’ yourself through bad changes.
You don’t have to go take anybody’s sh*t, man,
so if you’re gettin’ more sh*t than you deserve,
you know what to do about it, man.
You know, it’s just music;
music’s supposed to be different than that —

just ring so true.  I can’t help hating that I missed out.  The music, the freedom, the love, the party.  We don’t have anything like that anymore. Continue reading

Nature v Nurture: and Socially Unfortunate Behavior —

I’ll never understand why my mother feels the need to belittle people around her when she is feeling inadequate.  This is something that she has done since I was a child, and, unfortunately, it was something that I had learned from her (as well as a host of other socially unfortunate behavior).

I think I never understood the adverse effects

teasing could have on people –

until I did — 

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Wanna fight?

The main difference between my husband and I is that I internalize every little thing while he externalizes his rage over, oftentimes, absolutely nothing.  While I will feel badly about something I’ve done (or even something I haven’t done), he is always angry about what he perceives is being done unto him.  Though I’ve always known this, he made it abundantly clear today while he shouted:

All this suffering is because

they have wished it upon me; 

I am cursed — 

It really comes down to taking responsibility for your own actions.  While I do not wish unto him (or anyone for that matter) the responsibility I feel for every little thing, I do wish he would stop complaining about everything and blaming everyone for each little inconvenience in his life.

For the millionth time, he told me he just wishes he could die.  While I am no stranger to the feeling, I am also painfully aware that I am the master of my own misery.  If I am on an upswing or I am feeling really rough, I know that only can change the way my life, my day, or even my moment is going.

We are all responsible

to create

our own

happiness — 

You know that person who complains all the time but never does anything to change his situation?  Yes, of course I love my husband and want to be there for him to hear about his day and to let him get that work drama off his chest.  However, there comes a time where the monotonous complaints are so regular that I get tired of hearing them. Continue reading