Half-full

One of my most favorite quotes is:

Pessimism is just an ugly word for pattern recognition.

I love it because in my mind, it is so true. The first time someone told me that I was being negative, I was shocked. I thought I was just commenting on the reality of the situation and didn't realize that what I was saying could be construed as anything other than an honest observation.

I consider myself a realistic optimist. I do not deny what is ugly about life or mankind, but I do still have hope. I believe in opportunities, especially for others. And I think it was spurred by a negative situation.

My father was a great dreamer. He wanted to be famous and he believed in art. Often times, his committment to his dreams was detrimental to our family. His frustration at being like the average peson and having to work menial jobs broke his spirit even as it fractured our family. While the ensuing financial struggles took their toll, it taught me a valuable lesson. People should give them dreams a shot. Under most circumstances, there is no harm in trying. And opening up that part of yourself and exploring something new energizes a person. I think that if my father had explored his creativity in a healthier way, he would have given my sister and I something more important than a famous father; he would have given us hope. And we would have seen that a life with hope and time spent doing something you love would be a life worth living. And that feeling, that idea, is so powerful, so motivating, that it buoys you when the seas of life get rough. As realistically, they do.

Instead, I learned to push down my dreams because my father's misguided pursuit of his hurt us more than helped. But the older I get, the more essential I see it is to find some joy in life. I am working on that but in the process am finding the pessimist in me rear her honest, half-empty head.

I am trying to battle her and keep perspective. I am hoping the energy and happiness I find from reading, writing and playing my violin, even at its screechiest, will drown out the voice that says I won't ever be able to do this. The voice that calls, "think how much happier you would be if you would have figured this out before. You are so far behind."

I am telling her to shut it and listen to the music. To be aware of what she is seeing; to open her eyes and see, and search for the patterns that have beauty and peace.

The work of growing up and becoming the woman you want challenges how you see things. I want my cup to be half-full. And then I want that bad boy to run over.

So today, I took my baby steps. I updated my resume and I submitted four job applications. One is safe and simliar to what I am doing now for work. One is closer to my field of Journalism. One sounds like amazing fun and the last one had the voice of negativity ringing as I read it; I couldn't do it, don't apply. So I felt the fear and sent in my resume anyway. Here's hoping for a full cup.

Category

I know all of us are more than one thing. There are lots of ways we define ourselves and how we function in the world. Titles like daughter, friend, coworker, are easy. I identify with them and know how to navigate in those categories. I am looking for more categories now.

When I was about 12, a family friend gave me a notebook. Her name was Kim and she wasn't like any one else I knew. She had a rocky life and was in the middle of a divorce and she referred to her husband as Stupid. She told us:

"Stupid and I broke up at the same place where he proposed," she said. "I took him back to that spot and said:

'Listen, Stupid. Do you want to stay together or not?' "

I don't even know what his real name was. She was smart and working to re-establish herself. The time we met her coincided with the time when my parents were separating. I was coping the way I knew how; withdrawing into myself. I think Kim was one of the first people to see me.

She wrote in the notebook:

"To S.T. - whether you are morose or not."

She said the notebook was a more than a pad of paper. It was a journal and that all writers should have one. She said: "In case you haven't noticed, you are a writer."

I still have what she wrote. It took me years to use the journal and I had always felt funny about referring to myself like that. Even now, it sounds weird to say.

A couple of years ago, I was watching a movie and had this feeling where I felt something hit me inside and I started to tear up. So clearly, I realized that I was a writer. But it still took me a long time to understand what that meant for me. People who actually write are writers. When applied to me, it seemed to be a title without substance. It didn't seem as important as other labels people carry, so I pushed it down again.

Recently an exceptional friend reminded me that I am a writer. Maybe it's time to stop fighting it because really, I love words. I adore them. Once I awoke early in the morning by my radio alarm and there was an interview of a linguist and I stayed awake to listen because I thought it was fascinating.

Learning a new language made words and their origins mean even more to me. I fell in love again.

When I read a book, I keep a notebook near by to write down phrases, sentences, or lines that I love. If there isn't a notebook near by, I mark the page so I can write it down later.

In recent years, I have become a critic. I will read a book and if it isn't really great, I am not just disappointed but disgusted. I read something and think: "This was published?! I could have done this!" A thought which makes me laugh considering that I haven't done that at all.

If I come across someone who will listen to me long-windedly go on about a word or something I read, I am so happy. Listening to someone else talk about a book, I am enthralled. I keep a list of books I want to read in my wallet. There is no money in it, but there is my list of books.

So, in my aforementioned verbose way, I have described how I am beginning to see myself as someone who writes. Or, a writer. I am going to really try to post to the ol blog more. In an attempt to improve my writing and to try and not become insane. Because covering up my label is causing me confusion and I just want to be who I am. While categories and labels can be lame, they also can help when it's time to choose what you want and how you want it. And I am ready to figure out what I want. Maybe I will even write about it.

Ride

Saturday I was with a friend who started having heart pains, so I dropped him off at the hospital. Before you yell at the screen, "why didn't you stay with him?!" There were many extenuating circumstances and he insisted that those of in the car continue on and then his daughter would return to pick him up. It's hard to read people sometimes. I know he was concerned because he didn't feel well, but I wasn't sure if he wanted someone with him or not. Being alone in the hospital when you are sick is depressing but maybe he felt he could cope better solo. Either way, I did what he said and left him and went and got his daughter. I called him later to see how he was and everything was much better. He thanked me for taking him to the hospital. Which is just the craziest thank you, ever. Perhaps one answer to my search for purpose is transporter.

"I just got lost. Every river that I tried to cross"

I struggle with this blogging. It's like I completely freeze up when I start to type and I don't know what to say. But throughout my day, I hear lines in my head. Phrases and things to write and ways to describe events. Maybe the problem is in my attempting to tell my own story. Even I don't find it interesting enough to have words for it. Maybe it would be better if I told someone else's story.

I recently discovered that all of my stories are sad. I think that is part of why I don't share with people because it sounds all sad and pathetic and then I feel the need to cover that up and paint it funny or with a positive end or something. Or what's worse, I express myself and my sad story and it's dismissed. Which hinders me more. So I feel sort of confused. What to share, what to say. When people are asking how you are, are they really asking? Do they mean, what is going on inside or hoping you will say good and move forward? I don't know.

I am not really sure what I want to have happen to be able to feel peace. I don't want to rehash my past. I am not looking for apologies. I think I want understanding.

I know I battle forgiveness but trust is another fight. I think I have forgiven those who have hurt me. I really don't wish them harm; not when I am in a sane place. It just feels unfair. And it always comes back to feeling unlovable. Their ability to show love and kindness to those other people makes me feel like their inability to do it for me is because I am harder to like; harder to love. And that makes me feel more alone. Leading to bottling more up.

I was with someone over the weekend who was speaking about things that had happened 30 years ago like they were yesterday. I don't want to stay in the past pain that way. I don't want that hurt to hinder me doing what I had always hoped for.

I promised myself that I would be able to come home and feel at peace when I grew up. I didn't keep that promise.

I wasn't going to be afraid and let people dictate who I was. I feel crippled by my own stupid fear. And I really hate that I can allow anyone else to determine if I am good, bad, sad, worthy, worthless.

I wasn't going to stay in Wisconsin. I have lived in Madison now for 13 and a half years.

I never thought I would be this lost. I never thought I would be so confused as to what I want, what is important to me and isn't, what I don't want, what I will or will not do.

I feel bad that the purpose of life doesn't appeal to me. Whenever I read it, I think, is that really all there is? I feel like the things that do appeal to me aren't as important as that bigger purpose and that keeps me from going forward too.

I guess the person I need to forgive is me. I lost so much and I won't get it back. I have to move forward and rebuild. But I feel ashamed. I need strength. I really thought I was a strong person. I know I am easy to dismiss. No one knows the truth of the situation and that hurts sometimes. It hurts that no one knows it all and can stand up for me. My whole life, I have been the one who stood for me, but right now I feel like I can't. I need strength. I don't want this to be where I stay stuck. I don't want this to be all that I am.

Right now, the overwhelming feeling is to get out of here. If I had a way to leave tomorrow, I would take it. Even though I don't know where I would go.

"Don't want to be afraid, I just don't want to be here."

I hope I can figure out what to do next. And I hope Jehovah can forgive me for my life fail.

I need strength.

The end of beards but at what cost

A couple of weeks ago, I went to have my face waxed. Eyebrows, lip, chin, sideburns. It is actually quite the process. My mom says that when I was born she didn't think I would have a forehead. I am a yetti.

I have accepted, for the most part, my yetti-ness and I had been working to maintain the ridiculous amount of facial hair I possess. I don't own my own wax because I don't think I would be able to pull off the strip on my own and then I would have partial bearded face and lips and chins and wax strips hanging from my skin and that will just be too much. So I was using the epi-creams to remove portions of it, but not only am I furry, but I am allergic to life and my skin is sensitive. The last epi-cream treatment kinded of burned my face and so, I stopped doing that. I pluck my brown and chin but every now and then I completely give up and head to a professional. I get overwhelmed by the expanse of hair and I need someone to find my face.

The struggle with this is the cost. It is not cheap to become facially de-haired. But a friend told me of a little place that will do your brows for $5! This means I could be hair free for a minimal cost. So a couple of weeks ago I went to the aforementioned establishment. It is owned by a very nice Vietnamese. They also do nails. I walked in and one of the nail technicians is yelling to one of the customers about what she wants done to her nails.

"Do you want a fill?!"

"NO! I don't have anything on my nails. I want a manicure."

They are at most three feet away from each other. There isn't that much else going on in the salon.

"What about these girls with you? Are they getting their nails done?!"

"Yes. Well, two of them are."

I come from around the corner and the technician assumes I am with the other woman. She yells:

"Is she with you?!"

"NO! I don't know her!"

I sheepishly ask to have my eyebrows waxed. She speaks in Vietnamese to the wax woman who speaks in Vietnamese to me. My Vietnamese is non-existent, but I figure out that I am supposed to follow her to the back. To the waxing room. I am hopeful to be reunited with my skin but increasingly nervous as I am escorted back.

We go into a room with makeshift walls of varying lengths. There is not a barber's chair. I sit in a an office chair and the woman goes to grab a popsicle stick and slather it with wax. She slaps it on my face and heads for my brows. She pushes on my forehead and rips. It stings but I am feeling better. The hair is leaving. I am heading towards two eyebrows. But then she heads towards the bottom part of my brow. I feel the paper cover my entire brow and I become afeared. I will have no eyebrow and will have to draw them in. I close my eyes. She pushes on my skin. She pushes harder on my eyeball and it pops open. She pulls and the hair is free but I can't see and I have no idea if there is any hair left.

She moves on. She attacks my chin and lip. She goes for the sideburns. She pushes my head to the side and pulls the skin taught. To get the angle she wants she presses into my neck. I am hoping she doens't crush my larynx as she completes her pull. The waxing finally stops and I think I am free. I have survived.

Then she goes into her toolbox and grabs tweezers. She yanks on the red irritated skin which remains. I actually can't believe there is any hair left. The tweezing stops and I think I can get up from the office chair but she returns to the toolbox for some sort of razor brush comb device I have never seen. She razor brushes my face. I think she is attempting to give me a hairline. I think this is beyond what anyone can do.

She stops and hands me a mirror. I do in fact still have two eyebrows but they are thin. I do have a hairline. I am happy to be less werewolf and more woman, but anxious to get home and wash my face. I ask her how much and she says that usually it would cost $35 but she knows that people have no money so I should just give her $20.

I get up from the office chair. Pay her and rush out. I am less yetti but my skin is itching. I drive home with bittersweet feelings. You can't beat $20 but was it worth the possible esophasgus smashing? Oh, what we women do for looks.