reflections on gut instincts

“Emotions can be a barometer of what needs to change and what’s lacking. For instance, if the color of your bathroom upsets you, instead of adapting to it, thinking, ‘I always overreact, it’s just a color, I must be crazy’, which is the way we have been conditioned, it might be time to change the color. Then there’s some relief and something else might come up, and we can change that, and our please grows and a different kind of awareness can begin to take root”.

-From Bluebird, by Ariel Gore

This sounds so familiar to me. So often, something presents itself in my life and if I’m stressed or angry about something, I think to myself, “I’m totally overreacting to this situation, I need to chill out”. Then, in the future, when I reflect back on what was going on, often my emotions were telling me something that I didn’t pay attention to, or wrote off as overreaction.. This has happened countless times in my life, without fail.

The above quotation is a rather simple example of something complex. How often have we confided in another person, a friend or relative, about something going on in our lives only to be met with the reaction “I think you are overreacting”. Deep down, it doesn’t feel like overreacting. I remember one time I had a friend that I was worried was taking advantage of me. Deep down, I knew I was being taken advantage of. I was giving rides, money and going to extended lengths to help somebody out who wasn’t reciprocating or even showing appreciation. I knew at the time that I needed to distance myself from said friend, but I felt guilty for doing so because I knew this person needed support and was going through a hard time. When I spoke with another close friend about it, the reaction I got was “I think you are overreacting because so many people have used you in the past”. I got mad. I felt taken advantage of and my boundaries were being crossed. It wasn’t until I was angry and hurt at the amount of wrong this particular needy friend had done to me that I finally listened to my gut instinct and distanced myself from the non-reciprocating friend.

That’s the tough part… stepping back and taking care of ourselves, allowing our boundaries to stand firm and not let others take advantage of them. Like the quote says above, our emotions are great indicators of what’s going on in a situation, we just choose to sometimes dismiss those feelings until we’re overwhelmed, angry and hurt and blow up.

It’s time to start listening to our emotions, tuning into them and wondering what they are trying to tell us and then listening, being kind to ourselves and our souls. We listen to our bodies when they tell us we need to rest or eat, sometimes we push those limits, but we know those feelings when they surface. The next time a situation makes your heart race and palms sweat, listen with kindness and acknowledge those feelings. We know more about ourselves than we think.

Reflections on Gratitude

I’ve been deeply engrossed in Ariel Gore’s book Bluebird recently. I found the book when I was browsing the women’s studies section of my local library and I’ve had some serious difficulty putting it down. I’ll admit I was very pleasantly surprised by the book and the inspiration it’s brought me in the past few days of reading it. I was drawn the the book solely because of the cover art and the fact that the cover sports the words “women and the psychology of happiness”, which is something I’ve been thinking about a lot recently. Gore put a lot of heart and soul into writing the book it’s definitely thought-provoking and heartfelt.

I’m not so much of a feminist as the author is, and the book tries to present the differences between men and women and their views on happiness which is something I’m not so interested int, but I appreciate the subject content, even though I had difficulty relating to some of it (ie- being a mother etc).

What I do feel compelled to relate my experiences to is her take on gratitude. In the novel, she writes about her experiences writing in a “gratitude journal”. She admits that when she first tried sitting down every night and writing about things that she was grateful for, she had difficulty doing so. She said it felt hokey, the same way I felt hokey when I tried to do the same.  I realized that when I journal at night, when I remember to journal, I often complain about the negative things that happen in my life and rarely focus on the moments that bring me happiness.

I thought about it this weekend while I was at work. The young boy with autism that I am an aide for wanted to go to the river, so we did. This trip took up a large percentage of my day. We walked down muddy paths looking for snakes and bugs, enjoying the early morning sunshine and the sound of the river crashing against the rocks. He wanted to swim so I sat as he swam, my feet in the water, the sunshine on my face, completely lost in the nature.

When I went to write later that afternoon, my thoughts immediately crept to writing about the debt that I owe, the irritating phone call I received that was causing my anxiety and how overworked I felt at the end of my workweek. I had to force myself to reflect on the positive moments of my day, the river and the bond I felt with the child I work with, the peace and serenity I had felt at the river. Those moments were lost in the hustle and bustle of the day, of life’s demands and obligations.

In spirit of the book and gaining a more positive spirit, I’ve taken it upon myself to make a weekly goal toward positivity. This week, I’m focusing on writing about the positive things that happen in my day to day life in hopes that my spirits will lift and appreciating simple moments in life will become less of a chore and more of a common thing for me.

(thoughts on) peaceful living

I’ve recently discovered that I’m no longer the melodramatic, wildly emotional creature that I once was. Maybe this is simply a product of maturity and growing more experienced. Maybe it’s something else. Either way, my wild, dramatic ups and downs have subsided and given way to a calm, thoughtful demeanor, the way clear skies always emerge after a storm.  I’m not sure if this  change is a good or bad thing but it is something I’m enjoying, and has certainly proven to be a facilitator of peace in my life.

At points in my life, my body was in a constant state of crisis mode. Pupils dilated, heart rate elevated, ready to pounce on impending doom, realistic or not. My mind was a live wire, my health weak from constantly stressing my body beyond it’s capacities, my mind a weary troubled head. It feels nice to simply sit and enjoy things. A drive to work is no longer autopilot, I enjoy feeling the way the steering wheels fits in my hands and the gentle wind on my shoulder, my voice radiating out of tune over the songs on the radio. To live in the moment is difficult, I often find myself having to remind to let worries pass, never reprimanding my soul for having such thoughts.

Sobriety helps this. Removing nicotine, alcohol and purging negative people and places from my life. I’m lonely and misplaced sometimes but I know that I will find my way. Things work out the way that they are supposed to in the end and difficult lessons will present themselves as challenges to learn from. I embrace those with open arms.

I am prepared, however, for circumstance to try to shake me from where I stand. I will greet it adversity and meet with a smile. These are things that will pass.

I can’t keep d…

I can’t keep doing this but I can’t walk away.

I want to write about him, his long hair the color of wheat and the way I feel when he touches me: out of lust, out of desire, out of romantic inclinations or ones that died before ever becoming much more than a tiny spark. There will be no fire just as there will be no words. The tumultuous ups and downs say more than the beginning or the end. Yet, still I try, never mustering more than a paragraph, as if keeping the lust and longing in my mind would suffice, avoiding the things between us coming to life paper or in verse, proving them real and not some far off distant dream that on some days are more of a nightmare than peaceful sleep.

I could never love him.

He’s a man of height, tall and lanky with blue eyes that fluctuate in color almost as frequently as his feelings regarding me. Slate grey when he’s not feeling it, bright blue when I know it’s on. I want him, his strong legs intertwined with me during sleep and his soft hands on my hips when he pulls me in. I want his lips on mine, kissing me with some kind of strange mix of passion and lust I’ve not experienced until I experienced him.

We met when we were young, fucked years later after a night of heavy drinking, no promises made for fear of breaking them. I didn’t mind, I liked the way his arm felt around my shoulders as we sat awkwardly on the couch in his living room the morning after, watching cartoons on his computer. I was intimidated, sipped the hot brown liquid made much too strong from the coffee cup he brought me from the kitchen. I drank another, jittery from what I assumed to be a one night fling and too much coffee.

He couldn’t love me.

I couldn’t love him.

He called me ba…

He called me baby, a word that made me think equally of futures together and the way my skin crawled when the word struck my eardrums. I never knew what to make of it but when he stopped saying it I wanted it back, the length of his hair between my fingers and his strong legs intertwined with mine as we slept.

I can’t write. I really wish I could write.

a brief update, feeling uninspired

It’s been a while since I’ve written, mainly because my car fell victim to some jackass’s decision to smash the rear passenger window of my vehicle and go for the canvas bag that is home to my vitamins and supplements, tampons and other much needed personal items. He probably needed the money he thought he’d find in the bag for crack or meth or a prostitute, or whatever other sketchy activities people steal to purchase in Richmond. Much to the thief’s dismay, there was no money in the bag, just a bunch of  things useless to his pursuit of sinful indulgence. When the thief emptied the canvas bag all over my backseat, he ruffled around the pile of clothing I used to hide my old laptop, which he or she discovered and promptly ran off with. This all happened in the fifteen minutes it took me to visit a friend across the street and return.

Long story short, my computer that had most of my writings on it has vanished and public computers cannot offer the privacy I need to write. For some reason, sitting in the computer lab at the public library, old men and curious ladies peeping over my shoulder to see what I’m up to isn’t really prime location for me to get my creative juices going. I strongly prefer my bed or cozied up on a couch with a mug of coffee, on the front porch with a cigarette and a thick winter jacket. So, apart from the fact that I don’t have privacy, it’s hard for me to get to a computer whenever creativity strikes and I want to write in this blog.

Now that winter has set in and the beautiful reds and yellows that autumn colors the treetops with have faded, I’m feeling lowly and sorry for myself which seems to be a general theme once the winter holidays hit. I miss my father, who passed almost six years ago, but every new tradition that has been created since hasn’t really filled the memories of the ones of the past, including the not so glamourous ones of the past. Still, I guess grieving never goes away, it just changes in how it hits and functions. This year seems to be a little different than the others– difficult. With most of my close friends in other places and doing better things than rotting along with me in Richmond, I don’t have many people to brighten my spirits with. The ones that are here are doing other things, good and awful, and I don’t have much to relate with them about anymore.

For the longest time, I craved stability in my life. I’d say its pretty stable. I do the same thing everyday: wake up, eat breakfast, read a bit, fuck around on the internet and try to write but usually feel altogether uninspired and as if my brain has turned to mush from underuse. I contemplate making some big life change, maybe create some kind of diversion by stressing out over a trivial problem until I’m close to panicing. Then I get restless, drive around, smoke too many cigarettes, get food with my food stamps and go home to try to create, write or draw. Usually by that point, it’s time to drive to work. On my commute, I try to chain smoke as many cigarettes as possible, which is usually one and a half. I listen to the same songs on the radio. I tap my feet the same way. I try to sing but realize the same time everyday that no matter how much I wish I was talented vocally, I was never meant to be a singer. I try to become inspired by the rainy day, or the sunny day, or the cold day, but to no avail. I spend the next five hours doing the same thing everyday at work and by the end, I leave feeling somewhat accomplished, or as if I did something semi productive. Sometimes I end the day with a friend. Other days I end it with a young man that I care about and want to write about but can’t. Sometimes I go home and stare at the ceiling a while before I fall to asleep. However I end my day, I end it feeling alone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

the questions that started to form in his mind sparked a stream of thoughts electric with energy, a live wire, too dangerous to touch at that particular moment. he rose to his feet, eager to defeat the ache of not having answers, the ache of not knowing. he found himself pacing around the small apartment he called home, trying to find something to busy his hands and ease his mind, his footsteps making a gentle tap, tap as he paced. with no particular source of distraction to invest his energy, he began to think again, this time proposing a more comprehensible and manageable approach to the tangled mess perpetually clouding any capability of clear and concise thinking. he placed his hands on the windowsill, picking at the worn paint chipping from years of neglect, noting the tinted green color that was now visible, contrasting with the white. Resting his forehead on the cold glass, his warm breath fogging the window, he sighed and stepped away to note his reflection before walking away. Things will make sense some other day.

 

 

 

voice week: post 4 & 5

Check out all the creativity and writing happening over at voice week.

I’ve been really busy and haven’t had the opportunity to post up thursday and friday’s pieces. Here they are!

 

4

I’m so pissed to be here tonight. Jane’s back home with the kids and knowing the crowd that ends up at this shithole on Friday nights, I’m not gonna be home until four in the morning,way after last call. Friday nights here are a fucking shit show, bunch of underage kids trying to get in here, old ladies desperate for dick throwing themselves recklessly all over washed up men, young people trying to feel mature as they take someone home after a night. At least they give good tips, as long as I can keep my service face on and keep ‘em happy. At least the girls come in to grab a drink and shoot the shit with me at the bar, if I get a goddamn free second to even talk to them. I’m feeling nice tonight. I’ll get better tips if I give out some free shots. Yeah, tonight’s a good night to suck up for extra tips.

 

5

I’m not sure why I let myself get dragged out to dive bars all the time. I just want to spend time with David tonight and he’s with me, so I guess this counts as double date because we’re meeting up with friends. When was the last time I went on a double date? Are David and I even dating? I can’t tell. I like him, I can’t keep my eyes everytime he leaves the table to go order us more drinks. He’s buying me drinks. I guess that means this is a date. Maybe it’s too early to tell. What if we run into his ex? Or mine. This is sort of a hot spot for both of them. I don’t know what to do.