L'amour!

I feel so loved, and in love, and loving. I am a happy little glow-worm with starry eyes and an intoxicated smile. Drink of my delight in you. P.S. I am wearing my rose quartz necklace today.

Sometimes I believe I have the right or reason to be angry or upset about a situation. Oftentimes, I reflect and discover that I was in the wrong, that I overreacted, or that I was a lunatic and perceived something nonexistent. This process is very damaging to my sense of self worth. Part of me wants to righteously hang onto the “reasons” I was upset, because in some ways that feels better than the opinion I later form of myself. However, in the end I feel worse, because I start thinking about what a bitch I must be to present unnecessary ugliness unapologetically. I know it can be very difficult to understand or deal with me. I am irrational and prone to fantastical thought. I am moody and overly sensitive, apparently much more so than the average person. These, and other characteristics, categorize me as crazy. I am functionally crazy, though, and it comes and goes. I do not know if it would be better to be completely over either line, but I think borderline is the worst. If I were totally insane, I probably would not even realize it, let alone question whether all the unpleasantness were in my nature or just my fault. If I were totally sane (such a condition exists?), I probably would be able to talk myself out of any rare episode of evil. So far I do not have control over the darkness and negativity that cloud my otherwise sunshiny personality; sometimes I can fake my way through it, but pretending does not take away the hurt inside. I want to believe that for every exceptionally negative aspect of my being, there is an exceptionally wonderful part that is equally noticeable. For example, although I feel deeper pain than most people, I experience greater joy. I wish I could convince myself of other ways my blessings counterbalance my curses, but somehow instead I get a lump in my throat and feel guilty, worthless, or disposable. I like to think of myself as a flower, one that is delicate but surprisingly hardy. I wilt frequently, but I also bloom often. I want to believe that my blossom is so bright and beautiful that I am more than worth the painstaking effort necessary to keep me in the garden. Is it?

Pollyanna Hates the Glad Game

Oh, there's nothing more tragic than the day Pollyanna cannot find anything to be glad about staying in bed. "No, it was a silly game. I hate it. I'll never want to play it again."

Jiggle me balls! Why does everything everywhere reek of urine?

Settling Down?

I landed in this town a year and a half ago, expecting it to be a stepping stone. Now I anticipate building my career, my family, my life here. This environment is much different from the urban lifestyle I had imagined, but I think it may be more suitable. In many ways I suspect that my desire for urban living is based largely off consumerism; often I will wish for product availability, a better selection at the cinema, an ethnic restaurant. Another dream of mine has been to reside in a somewhat utopian community where I can promote recycling and adopt a highway, buy eggs from my neighbors, and provide/improve education in the local school system, university, or within the community. Why do I feel torn, as though my future were tour package options and I have only one Great Vacation? Sometimes I feel as though my wonderful opportunities have placed expectations on me. Because I have traveled far and experienced great things, I think my family, for example, assumes that I would not find happiness doing anything else, or that eventually I will end up in a loft apartment where I belong. Yes, I am still young and fabulous, but things that sound appealing at 21 are lonelier at 25. It is time for me to start establishing roots and growing strong. I believe I can continue traveling and learning while living a modest, happy home life in the sun the rest of the year. I believe I can accomplish what I want, have it all, and be well, and this hope has brought me peace.

Birth

Maybe it’s because I am more interested in childbirth than I used to be, but it seems as though cesarean births are increasingly common. Why is this? It seems so unnatural to cut a child from the womb when a canal is provided. On the other hand, I imagine myself needing sedation just to get through it mentally. I panic at the image of even a much-desired baby ripping and clawing its way out of my body; as everyone knows, for a few short moments the fetus transforms into an alien determined to destroy its host as it leaves. Is it wrong and unnatural to use painkillers for this simple act of life? I love the idea of myself giving birth without drugs, without being cut open, and using only my good birthing hips. However, if state of mind matters, I would have died in childbed in the Middle Ages.

Take me anywhere. My body is a map and my heart the open road.