The last 5 days...

Something has happened...something weird and wonderful and bizarre and unexpected. I just got home this morning from a date.

A 5 day long date.

I don't like being unsure of things. It's a weird little quirk of mine. I tend to be much more comfortable in general when I know what's going to happen and when it's going to happen. Perhaps it's the control freak in me...I don't know. That's an analyzing for another day. The point is, I just let all of that go for 5 days. I let life come at me and have it's way with me. I relaxed, and I just...lived. And enjoyed. And spent 5 days with this wonderful, kind, thoughtful, considerate person I had just met. Kind of crazy, right? I mean, it all started out somewhat normal. We emailed and texted for a few days. Then we talked on the phone. Then came the safe first date. We met for coffee. It was already obvious we had a connection prior to our first meeting...but wow. Coffee turned into a late dinner which turned into sitting in his car and talking for several hours which turned into "hey, I have a three day weekend, why don't you come home with me because I'm not ready to not be around you yet."

I somewhat reluctantly agreed. Reluctantly only because we had just met. I wasn't ready to not be around him either...but I didn't really know this person. What if he was a serial killer? What if he had a dungeon full of the corpses of other safe first dates who met their untimely ends at his maniacal hands? But honestly, I didn't get a serial killer-y vibe. And I went with my gut. It still felt crazy at first...but it also felt right. So I went with it.

I'm so glad I did. What an amazing first date. We spent the last 5 days getting to know each other, talking about anything and everything, asking hypothetical yet pointed questions (well...he did most of the asking. But I am an open book and I was happy to answer. And then do the cop-out thing and ask him his own questions). I won't bore you with every detail of the last 5 days...not because any of it was boring. We did things that could be considered boring, like going to Walmart (where very important topics such as "do you like butter on your popcorn?" were covered. Seriously though - random shopping at Walmart is a terrific way to get to know someone). But the details, boring or not, are not the point of this particular blog post. And the details, in all their random, boring-but-not-boring glory, are mine. And his.

I suppose the point is the wonderful weirdness of the whole experience. In a matter of days we went from getting to know each other to not being able to get enough of each other. (Minds out of the gutter please kiddies. That's my gutter, thank.you.very.much.). I spent 5 days in his world with him. We did spend a few minutes at my house at one point and I was thrilled for him to get to see a little bit of my world. I wanted to share that with him. But I very definitely was not a resident of my reality for those 5 days. And that's okay. Because really...what is reality? It's what we make of it, right? His world was my reality for that period of time. I never felt like I was escaping anything in my world. I never felt like I was running away. Circumstances just allowed that I be in his world for a few days...and I liked it. And now I miss it. I'm back in my world, and it is what it is and that's okay...but I miss it. Really I think just I miss him.

Rational people who don't do things at warp speed would probably read this and say "Whoa there killer. Slow your roll. What's the rush?" That's the beautiful thing about this to me though. That I have just gone with it. I'm still going with it. I'm going with how I feel. I like how he makes me feel. I like that he makes me happy. I like that it feels right. I like that I want to know everything about him and I want him to know everything about me. I like that even though there is always the possibility that I may hate myself for writing this down and then making it public knowledge I still want to do just that. I don't want to analyze this to death with my trusty over-worked brain. I don't feel the need to put a safe label on it. I want to just keep going with it, in spite of the always real potential for a crash and burn of cataclysmic proportions. Because really, (there's that pesky reality again)...sadly, that is always a possibility with any relationship or friendship, anywhere, anytime. I know that the very act of just writing this down and then making the decision to push that little "PUBLISH POST" button makes me vulnerable. This whole thing has made me vulnerable. Beautifully, openly, terrifyingly vulnerable. But just think...if I hadn't made the decision to be vulnerable I wouldn't have had these amazing last 5 days. I know it's early, I know it's been rushed. But no matter what happens I wouldn't have it any other way. I hopeful and I'm happy and yes, I'm a little scared. Because making yourself vulnerable is scary. But I think it's worth taking a chance.

Magic

Over the course of the last 24 hours I have just re-read Stephen King's "On Writing." The last time I read it, or attempted it, was almost exactly 10 years ago. I came to it then exhilarated, full of hope, and generally assuming that just by reading it I would be able to sit down and crank out a best-seller. 'Hey,' I thought, 'this is great! An instruction manual from a highly influential person in my life on how to do the one thing I have always burned to do but have never quite managed to follow through with.' I have spent most of my life knowing a few things: I am a writer, I want to write and I need to write, and I am inwardly (and hey, let's be honest here, outwardly too) terrified that I will suck at it and therefore mostly avoid doing it.

I never finished reading "On Writing" 10 years ago. Something in what he wrote in the actual section of the book that deals with the craft of writing deeply offended me. At the time, I think it was the fact that I interpreted something he wrote as this: "To be a writer, you must read a lot and write a lot. If you can't or aren't willing to do both of those things, if you can't or aren't willing to set aside a chunk of several hours each day, then you may as well give up."

The key word here is interpreted. Of course I was deeply offended; my literary hero, the man whose works I have read more often than any other, the writer who has enriched my life with the power of his words over and over and over again, the man who began changing my life with his words when I was 13 years old and read "Pet Semetary," basically just told me that since I didn't have the time that he deemed appropriate to devote to the craft that I couldn't do it. I was 24 years old at the time, working full-time, and way too concerned with whether or not I would die alone surrounded by all of the cats that I would surely have to set aside several hours every day to write. I never made it to the last 20 or so pages of the book, if memory serves. I set it aside, discouraged and a little bit heartbroken.

As it turns out, my interpretation was way off. What King accomplished with "On Writing" was a fantastic read. Part memoir, part instruction, all of it a love letter to the craft of writing. Part of it written after his accident in 1999 and subsequent brush with death. (And remember kids, this is just my interpretation, yet again).

A lot has happened to me in 10 years. The most obvious is that I'm 10 years older. I have more experience, I've been married, had a few kids, I've gotten divorced. But I am still, in my heart and my soul, a writer. I've come back to that simple fact lately. I've had a lot of time to think about it.

I realize now that I did myself, and my hero, a great disservice in not finishing the book 10 years ago. I missed a lot by putting it down and not opening it again for a decade. The description of his accident and the time that followed spent healing moved me to tears. But it was this that made me weep, with joy and hope and possibility, and yes, not just a little fear:

"Writing isn't about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid, or making friends. In the end, it's about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life, as well. It's about getting up getting well and getting over. Getting happy, okay? Getting happy. Some of this book - perhaps too much - has been about how I learned to do it. Much of it has been about how you can do it better. The rest of it - and perhaps the best of it - is a permission slip: you can, you should and if you're brave enough to start, you will. Writing is magic, as much as the water of life as any other creative art. The water is free. So drink.
Drink and be filled up."

That's magic. Pure and simple.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some writing to do...

There is no possible way to come up with an appropriate title for this.

In my last blog, I brought up the fact that the judgment from and rejection by one person in particular has been a negative factor in my life that I need to move away from. In order to do that, I need to let go of some things. The most important of which would be my anger. My furious, buried-deep-down-in-there-somewhere-because-it's-easier-than-dealing-with-it, lava-like, burning anger.

It has come to my attention recently that this person has been, presumably by way of other people running back to her and reporting that I have blogged something new, stalking my blog. Let me assure you (all 3 or 4 of my dedicated readers, ha ha) that this was not my intention. My decision to post these entries to Facebook was not a capricious one; I consider that option long and hard before I click that little blue button with the "F" on it. I write here to unburden myself. I write here to get the words out of my head. I realize that simply by posting these words that are no longer in my head on the internet I am displaying them out in the open for everyone to see. But isn't that kind of the point of a blog?

But I digress. So...this person is apparently still quite bothered by the turn of events that led to the dissolution of our friendship. She has been tweeting recently (and yes, those very tweets were brought to my attention by someone else running to me and letting me know. No judgment in that or in my saying that others have run to her to let her know I have blogged. We're women, it's a complicated situation that indirectly involves many people, and we're gonna talk about it. It's human nature. And possibly estrogen. But I digress. Again.).

I've seen the tweets. Should I have read them? Probably not. Am I certain that she is cryptically referencing me in her oh-so-sad, victim mentality infused words? Yep. Pretty fucking sure.

So...my anger. Let's just get it all out in the open, shall we? Because I'm quite sure that she's going to read this eventually.

You rejected me. You rejected my choices, my lifestyle, and pretty much everything else. I came back here last November hopeful for this new chapter in my life and hopeful for our friendship. And you rejected me. You found fault in pretty much every choice I made. I fully and completely understand your reasons for being less than thrilled about my decision to stay in Phoenix, what I don't understand and probably never will understand is how you could completely turn your back on me for that choice when I needed you the most. You were like my sister. And I have a fucking sister.

So I came back. That decision pleased you and you began instructing me on how to live my life. At first I overlooked it. I was so happy to have you back in my life again. Then, as you brought to my attention, things got "weird." Of course things were a little weird. I thought it was all part of the healing process. But no...I shouldn't have rented the house I rented when I rented it. I didn't need a TV, so-and-so went without a TV for several months when she first got her house. I shouldn't be smitten with the boy I was smitten with at the time. I didn't give enough of my time to you and when I did it was to talk about the boy I was smitten with. I chose to sleep with people you didn't deem as acceptable. Or maybe it was just that I chose to have sex. I'm not really sure. Well guess what? It's my life, my credit rating, and my fucking vagina. Not your vagina.

A part of me will always miss you and love you. I will always be grateful for what you've done for me. I am not without fault in this situation. It took me way too long to repay you what I owed you, mainly because you don't accept Visa or Mastercard. I disappointed you on many levels. I get that. I fucked up. Repeatedly. I made bad choices, and I have to deal with the consequences of those choices. But guess what? I'm human. We all fuck up. I would have stepped in front of a bus for you. I don't care what you would have done, I would still have been your friend and stood by you. Because to me, that's what friendship is. Friendship is not based on whether or not the other person in said friendship meets your expectations on a regular basis and always makes the decisions you sanction as appropriate. Friendship shouldn't be conditional.

I'm done with this now. I'm done with the anger and the sadness and the bitterness and the have's and have not's. I'm fucking done justifying my choices to people who chose to do nothing but judge me. I'm just done. Live your life, find your peace. I really hope you find it. But don't tweet about friendship and not being able to let go when you are the one who chose to not allow me to be a part of your life anymore.

Strength rediscovered...

The one year anniversary of my return to North Carolina is rapidly approaching. I wasn’t exactly sure of the date, so I scrolled back through all of my facebook statuses to find it. (It was November 12, 2010). Talk about a trip down amnesia lane.

My brain never shuts up. I’m pretty sure I’ve said that here before. But truly...it’s never really quiet. I’m an over-analyzer and a deep thinker. I am both grateful for and irritated by this. My return to North Carolina was a huge (albeit quick) decision in my life, and I know I’ll be thinking about that decision and what led up to it and what has followed a lot in the coming weeks.

I have learned a lot in the past year. A lot about my weaknesses, things I need to work on...but also a lot about my capacity for strength. I forget that sometimes. It gets lost, it shuffles around in my busy brain...but eventually I always find it. I’ve learned who my friends are...and sadly, I’ve also learned that some people can’t find it within themselves to still be my friend. But, (and this is a very recent discovery...as in about 20 minutes ago) I have spent so much time concentrating on what is past, what is lost, what is gone, that I have shut out what is still there. I took myself out of the equation for what I thought was the sake of others, but what I really did was shut myself off. I am much more guarded now; the pain of losing someone I thought was my closest friend, from what I understand because she couldn’t accept me or my decisions any longer, cut very deep. It has bled into every other part of my life. Somewhere in the back of my brain (sometimes in the very front) is the same thought: there must be something deeply wrong with me. I’m no good. I’ve fucked everything up beyond repair. That thought, coupled with what is basically rejection, from basically one person, has clouded my judgement. Instead of focusing on what I do have in my life, I’ve been overwhelmingly focusing on what I’ve lost.

I have been through so much in the past year. I moved across the country for the second time in less than six months with nothing more than what fit in the trunk of my car, I struggled to get my own place, I continually struggle to keep it, I got divorced, I’ve grappled with the enormity of what my leaving and coming back is doing to my kids. I’ve continued to make some less than brilliant decisions along the way, but that’s life, isn’t it? At the end of the day, and I still have to tell myself this every day, the important thing is that I came back, even if that doesn’t always seem like enough. A lot of the time I still feel like a complete joke. And sometimes I feel like this is all just a bad dream, and maybe at some point I’ll wake up and I’ll feel safe and whole and a little less insecure.

Throughout everything, I am still comforted by the same truth: everything happens for a reason. Sometimes I struggle with what those reasons are, but I also know that I may never know. Think about it for just a little bit...we come in contact with people in our lives every day. Some we know, some we don’t. Think about the impact that each of us can have on someone else, no matter how small. Who have I met as a result of my move to and from Phoenix? Who has touched my life as a result of that? Which lives have I touched as a result of that? I know in my bones that I have made friends and met people and made connections that are as essential to my life as breathing, and none of it would have happened without that one decision.

I do battle every day with this over-active brain of mine. Happiness, peace, confidence...they are illusive and fleeting. But I am on a path. My path. I have to accept that, embrace it. Every single thing I’ve done has brought me to where I am right now. And where I am right now is where I’m supposed to be. There is so much peace in that realization. I am eternally grateful for everyone in my life right now. I may have lost some people along the way, but the ones I still have in my life are amazing. They are funny and kind and strong and a little crazy and perfect. They may not always be a part of my life, but they are now.

So I will continue to find my strength and embrace it, and be grateful for what and who I have, and know that I’m not alone. This is my life, my path...and even though I lose sight of it from time to time, I know it’s a pretty damn good one.

"Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle."

How do I answer their questions? How do I explain to a six-year-old, even a very smart one, why I left his father without tainting his image of his father? I won’t do that. When I get a point blank question, seemingly out of nowhere, about why I stopped living at his home...it renders me speechless. All I could do, what I will continue to do, is tell him how much I love him, how my leaving his father had nothing to do with him, how I love him forever, no matter what. And I have told and will tell my daughter the same thing.

I left my children. I left them. I made a choice, and a little over a year ago, I left my children and I gave my now ex-husband custody and I hid in Arizona for 5 months. There is so much more to it than that...but those are the basics. I left, and I hid.

As my father so eloquently says, don’t spend too much time kicking your own ass; the world will do that for you. There’s something to that advice...but I have spent a lifetime kicking my own ass, and it is a hard habit to break. It’s second nature.

Logically, I know that the past is the past, what’s done is done, insert-other-cliche-about-living-in-the-present here. I know that I made a choice and now I have to live with that choice and the consequences. I know that no matter how hard the road or how much I kick my own ass, that decision ultimately got me out of a really bad marriage. A marriage I had been trying to get out of for 2 years. Could I have done it any other way? Probably. But...this is how it played out. This is how it went down, and I have to deal with that.

I struggle every single day with what I did. Logically, I know that I did what I had to do at the time and I did the best I could. Logically, I know that I can’t change anything and that all I can do is move forward. But that is just my mind. Try telling that to my heart. In my heart I feel selfish. I miss my children. I don’t miss the life I left behind, but I miss my kids.

So I will continue to tell my kids I love them and spend as much time with them as I am allowed. For now. I will continue to work on myself, for I am, as always, a work in progress. I will try to stop kicking my own ass. Because that’s not really productive, is it? To kick my own ass for things that are done and can’t be changed...it serves no purpose. I know I have to figure out a way to stop focusing on the past and live in the present. I just don’t know how.

This whole experience has reminded me of something very important: being judgmental is pointless and hurtful. I've said this before and I'll say it again - until you've walked a mile in my shoes, you have no right to judge me or what I've done. Some people get that. Some people don't. I know I don't need the people who don't get that in my life, but it still hurts.

Suburbia=twitchy

Suburbia makes me twitchy.

Five or 6 years ago, it was all I wanted. The big house in the cookie cutter neighborhood, the white picket fence, the neighborly hospitality. The 2-car garage, the big backyard. I so desperately wanted that. I got it, I relished it. I tried so hard to be the person who would fit in, tried to do the right things and say the right things. For 6 years in that seemingly perfect neighborhood I repeatedly attempted to squish my round self into a square hole. It worked for a while. Until it stopped working. Then everything stopped working.

There is a part of me that realizes that I am vilifying suburbia. At least a little. But it still makes me twitchy. When I drive past subdivisions I can literally feel myself tensing up. Once I am back on a country road on the way to my house I breathe a little easier. Those cookie cutter houses symbolize everything I am not and everything I tried to be but couldn't manage.

I inadvertently took a short yet painful driving tour through my past this evening on the way home from Easter dinner at my mother's house. The pizza place that used to be the Thai place that he and I used to go to all the time when we were first dating. The house that used to be the bed and breakfast we got married at. The old route I used to take to drive the kids to preschool from that house in suburbia.

It brought back a lot of unpleasant memories, but it brought back some good ones too. I'm not sure which ones hurt more. I know in my heart and soul I made the right decision when I left him. But I think even the worst of relationships have some sweet and happy remnants when things end, even if those things are hard to remember at first. And I think that applies to friendships too.

I lost friends as a result of staying in Phoenix last summer. Some of these friendships were temporarily patched up upon my return. Most didn't make it though, for whatever reason. It hurt. It still hurts, and it will probably always hurt a little. I ended up rediscovering one friendship I thought I'd lost though. And I've come to realize something recently: this friend is possibly one of two people I've been lucky enough to know in my life who has never tried to change me. Not ever. She's never told me what I'm doing wrong or what I need to do differently or instructed me on how I should live my life. She just accepts me for who I am, listens to me when I'm sad, lets me cry, and laughs with me when life is good and even when it's not. I hope I do the same thing for her.

I'm learning that life itself is a process. It's not a series of absolutes. Life is always changing, flowing, moving. I am learning to grow and change with it. That's a process too though. I am grateful for so many things in my life, even when I feel too broken to remember what those things are. I love the time I get with my kids. I love my tiny, old house with all of it's charms and imperfections. I love my tiny, old house's lack of a white picket fence. I love my dog. I love the people who remain in my life and accept me for who I am, warts and all. Most importantly, and this may be the biggest process of all, I am learning to love and accept myself. Every part of myself. I know it all starts with that.

Suburbia still makes me twitchy though. Learning to get over that will be a part of the process too...

Corporate America...no thank you...

The whole concept of "corporate culture" makes me a little ill. On some level I get the whole "have-a-job-be-dedicated-to-it-and-do-it-well" thing, and I can appreciate and recognize it in my co-workers. I also know that not everyone is made the same. I, personally, want more than working within a "corporate culture" somewhere for the rest of my life. (Disclaimer: not that there is anything wrong with that - to each their own). Work for me is a means to an end. I pay my bills (or try to anyway) with whatever scratch I manage to come up with from my several menial jobs. Meanwhile I dream about writing, playing music, being creative.

This place is a huge joke. Never before in my life have I seen such a humongous cluster fuck in a corporate environment from a firsthand perspective. We temps are ignored and poorly trained, and we get to sit and push F2 and F3 all day. We don't know what we're doing or why we're doing it, but news flash: neither do the people who actually work here. No one has a clue! Half of everyone's time seems to be spent standing around and bullshitting while attempting to look important.

I feel extremely useless, bored and unproductive. So this is what I went to college for. Huh.

My choices are my own; my actions and my decisions brought me here, good and bad. I could have tried harder, studied more, chosen an actual career path. But then, I would probably be one of the ones standing around bullshitting while attempting to look important.

That's not me. Never has been really. Power suits, 9 to 5, "corporate culture"...that's just not me. I am t-shirts and jeans and naps and words and music. I have always been a little out there, a little different. Marched to my own drummer, if you will. I'm okay with that. I'm happy with that. I think I am better for it.

Now...time to stop just dreaming. Time to start creating.

Questions

The questions have started, in earnest.

There were a few here and there when I first came back from Phoenix. From S - "Mommy, do you still love my Daddy?" Things like that. (How do I answer that? How do I translate the real answer to that question for a 4-year-old little girl who loves princesses and still believes in happily ever after?).

The questions have become more frequent, and much more difficult to answer.

I had a conversation with C a few weekends ago over a Dr. Seuss matching game. I'm not sure what came over me, but I suddenly had to tell him how much I love him and how my leaving last summer had nothing to do with him or his sister. His question, which I stupidly was not prepared for, was "then what did it have to do with?"

I do not know how to answer these questions without hurting them more. I do not know how to answer these questions without saying mean and nasty (albeit true) things about their father. I refuse to do that to them. My mother did it to me, and I have not and I will not speak ill of him in front of or to them.

S likes to reminisce. She is constantly saying things like "remember when we went strawberry picking when I was a baby and I ate so many strawberries my face was all red?" She seems to have a "remember when?" for everything little thing.

Last night, as I was rinsing the shampoo out of her hair, she said, "Mommy, remember when we used to take a bath and if we didn't have a cup to rinse our hair you would tell us to put our head back and we'd rinse it with the water that comes out of the bathtub? That was fun. We used to take baths with you all the time. Mommy, why did you leave our home? Don't you miss us?"

It was like a sucker punch to the gut.

"Yes baby. I miss you every day I'm not with you. I missed you every day I was away."

The other question, the first one...that took a little longer for me to answer.

"When I first left I was only going to stay a few weeks. But I decided to stay because I needed to figure some things out."

Of course, what was going through my mind, what I almost said, was radically different. I stayed because I was broken. I stayed because I allowed your father to break me for 9 years and I didn't know how to put myself back together in North Carolina. I stayed because I didn't know what else to do. I stayed because I knew I could never support you on my own. I stayed because it was the only way I could ever really, truly, finally get away from your father for good. I stayed because I was tired and sad and lost and the desert held an unexpected and strange healing for my soul. I stayed because I'm selfish and horrible. I stayed because I found a friend...much more than a friend.

And I wanted to tell her that I came back because I missed her and her brother so much it hurt. I came back because I had to face it, all of it. I left my father and I left my friend and part of my heart in Phoenix when I left to come back here.

I didn't say any of that. All of that went through my head in about 10 seconds. And by the time I had given her my safe answer, she had already moved on to something else, something that didn't have anything to do with the pain I have caused, or any of the other adult things they bring up from time to time. She was already telling me all about her bath time doll, Belle, and her bathing suit and how her hair turns pink and how she likes yellow soap and yellow lotion because her skirt is yellow. But I know, underneath all of that kid stuff, the bigger questions are still there.

I know I need to let it go. I know I need to stop feeding all of this guilt, stop letting it have power over me. I need to let it go and move forward. But it is so hard. Much harder than I thought it would be, if that is possible at all. I'm back, I'm here, I get to hug them and kiss them and spend time with them. Even though part of my heart is still in Phoenix, I am here, and I need to focus on the future and all of it's possibilities.

But I wish there was some kind of instruction manual for these questions. I know there will be more, I know they'll probably never stop...I just wish I knew the best way to answer them.

Pavlov's Dog

I've been thinking a lot lately about technology. Cell phones, smartphones, tablets, what have you. I went over to the dark side last summer and got an iPhone. I had a teeny little iPod Nano, and I loved it...but I had seen firsthand the wonders of the iPhone and I WANTED ONE. Badly.

So in a fit of impatience and spontaneity, I marched myself into the local Apple store and I got my iPhone. Don't get me wrong, I love it. But...I am somewhat ashamed to admit that it has become an extension of me rather than a gadget meant for talking on the phone and occasional web surfing. Sometimes I feel like I should just go ahead and have it surgically removed from my person. When did we become so plugged in that we stopped being able to just be? I can't relax for two seconds without some sort of technological stimulation. I have literally forgotten how to just...be.

I woke up this morning eager to get started on some much-needed cleaning and organizing around the house. And my first thought was 'gee, I wish I had my teeny little iPod Nano so I could put it in my pocket and put in the earbuds and just listen to some music on full volume.' It kind of made me a little sad. Yes, I realize I can access my iPod from my iPhone, put it in my pocket and put in the earbuds and listen to some music on full volume. But this gadget is my phone, my email, my text messaging, my Facebook, my alarm clock, my distraction, my holder-of-many-fancy-apps. It's all too easy, too at-the-fingertips. And if I docked my iPhone and turned on the music or put in the earbuds it would inevitably be interrupted by a text or a phone call or a Facebook update. Sometimes I feel like Pavlov's dog...I hear that little tinkling glass alert and I drop what I'm doing and go running to it to find out who texted me!

As a spiritual person rather than a religious one, I usually just give up giving up things for Lent for Lent (process that one! lol), but if I did decide to give anything up for Lent this year, it would probably be using my iPhone for frivolous reasons.

Let's be honest, that's so not going to happen. Texting is convenient and sometimes helpful and the map function has turned me into someone who can get anywhere at all, rather than someone is hopelessly directionally challenged and could get lost in a paper bag. But I am going to try very hard to disconnect myself from the whole technology thing a bit. It definitely runs my life way too much, and I need to be running my life.

This whole living-by-myself thing has proved to be a challenge for me. I really thought it would be endless fabulousness...and it's not. But that's reality. And I am coming to terms with the fact that all the technology and wine and feeling sorry for myself has just been a series of distractions designed to keep me from doing what I should have been doing these last several months: figuring out who I am, and learning to like her. I'm working on that. It's something I'm going to have to work on every day. Along the way, hopefully I'll learn to just be while I'm at it...

Come here often? I'm new here.

Not really.

This is actually my 3rd trip to the blogosphere. I've been working really, really hard at not writing anything at all lately, a choice that doesn't really lend itself to blogging.

See, if I write, then I have to actually deal with stuff. You know, process all those wacky feelings and endless thoughts. And I have just not been up for that. For a long time. Apparently, I prefer to torture myself by not dealing with anything. I've just been letting it all wash over me, constantly. I am barraged with all of these random, erratic emotions and thoughts every single minute of every day. My.brain.never.stops.

But now, I think I am ready to deal with it all. Maybe. And I definitely think this is a good place to start.

We'll see.