I was reading some of my old journal entries in my deadjournal this morning. I found one entry that I kind of remember writing. I think I am going to use it for my writing class next year. It's one of those gems that you write down and save because you might not be able to use it as soon as you write it, but you know it's going to come in handy some day. Well, over 2 years after I wrote it, it's going to come in handy. The beauty of writing. I love writing.
Here's the entry, from Wednesday, August 10, 2005, posted at 10:26 pm.
To ease that sense of loss, the sense of betrayal, the disbelief and the anger, the love and the resentment, the inability to decide if I regretted everything I did, or if I appreciated what I did because it changed me and led me in a direction that could benefit me in the long run, to slow the thoughts that never stopped coming into my head, the memories, the memories of anger, the memories of feeling like nothing would interrupt my feeling of euphoria, I would have to find something strong enough that would make my brain focus on that, and only that. And not even yoga could allow for that kind of required attention and commitment. Instead it had to be a strong, red travel mug of the strongest coffee I could possibly brew without overdoing it and giving myself a caffeine headache. Making coffee like that was always a challenge I enjoyed, for not only am I normally a tea person, but I suffer from migraines that are unable to be described to anyone else, even those who suffer migraines as I do. If I have too much caffeine, I will get a migraine. If I have no caffeine, I will get a migraine. If I drink too much warm water, I will get a migraine. If I don't eat often enough I will get a migraine. My list could continue for another three pages and extend to more than just food related ailments, but I will spare you the tedious reading.
But nothing is as tedious as having to actually search for something, some act or some food or drink strong enough to make me feel empowered. In the mornings it is tea in front of my computer. In the afternoon it is the strongest coffee I can possibly brew, and in the evenings, it is a glass of red wine and a book, and sitting in my bed and reading. In my books there are people I would like to know in real life. I try to convince myself as I am reading that I can someday be as they are, even if they are the epitome of imperfection. At least they are the epitome of something.
But having to rely on that tea, coffee, and wine on a daily basis to get the thoughts out of my head is almost as frustrating as the thoughts I am trying to repel.
I often wonder why I can't move on from a mistake, or from a bad experience or memory. Why I need to bury my face into a pillow and convince myself that the other person in that memory, mistake is not thinking right now of the mistake I made. Perhaps is not even thinking of me right now if I am lucky. I wish as the coffee pours down my throat, making the muscles connecting my fore arm to my upper arm jittery with the sudden rush of caffeine, that I am never thought about and never contemplated. Things would be easier that way for me, and for those I often hurt, and for those who hurt me.
I would edit that entry, though. There are a few parts that I don't particularly like. Some sentences seem contrived and whining. But that's the entry, and I am going to use it next semester in that writing class. (that 400something level class). That entry still applies to me now, too. That last paragraph is something I still think about every day.
Over Christmas break this year I am going to not work too much at Papa Gino's (I am going to see if they will let me work 2 days a week. If not, I'm not going to work at all. I have enough money saved to pay my rent and not have to work over Christmas break). My mother said if I help out around the house and drive the kids to school every day, she won't kill me for not working. So anyhow, the plan is not to work so much and to get other things done. I have a long list of books I have to read. I also have to write. A lot. A lot a lot.
It's really cold outside now. The past two weeks have been kind of crazy for me. School has been crazy, and I don't know how I feel about it. Going through a mid-life crisis at the age of 20 while I am in college is not the best time to go through one of those crises. It takes away from my school work. But also, while doing some digging in my old journal entries this morning, I found this entry, which is a passage from the novel Prodigal Summer by Barbara Kingsolver. It describes what I think about every single day, and every time I sit down to write another essay, or to respond to more questions in the back of a textbook, or to study for another midterm.
"You're not big enough to break my heart. I'm not some schoolgirl, give me a little credit. But I'm not sure I can be like you, either."
"What do you mean, 'like me'?"
"Living with no plans at all. I keep bumping into walls." She rolled onto her back, unable to look at him anymore. "When I moved up here I thought I'd be just like the pheobes and wood thrushes. Concentrate on every day as it came, get through the winter, rejoice in the summer. Eat, sleep, sing hallelujah."
"Eat, sleep, screw, sing hallelujah."
"Well, yeah." She covered her face with both hands and rubbed her eyes. "The birds were getting a lot more action than me. But you know what? Turns out they do have a plan. I'm an outsider, I'm just watching. They're all doing their own little piece of this big, rowdy, thing. Their plan is the persistence of life on earth, and they are working on it, let me tell you."
"You're persisting."
"In a real limited way. When I'm dead, what have I made that stays here? A master's thesis in the U.T. library, which eleven people on the face of the earth have read or ever will."
Why couldn't I have started thinking about these things when I turn 22? Why did they have to start when I was 18 and entering Providence College? Was it something that happened in my life around that first semester when I went to PC that started my thought process on all of this? Why do my thoughts on these things have to interfere with my work? No, I am not talking about love or romance. Those things do not have an effect on my work. Other thoughts. Why, for example, can't we (humans) eat, sleep, screw, sing hallelujah? Why do we do this ridiculous dance? We're animals, after all. Why can't we be content with just living? Is it a part of human nature to strive for more? I don't always strive for more. Most of the time I am content sitting at home and reading a novel. But then again, if humans didn't strive for more, would I even have these novels to read? These great works that I enjoy would not have been produced. So I guess my question is, why all the pressure for every human to produce more, work harder, make it better? Why can't society be content with those who want to eat, sleep, screw, sing hallelujah? Is that such a crime? When it comes down to it, that's what life is. Eating, sleeping, screwing, and singing hallelujah. So who decided that a person who wants to do those things with his or her life is unmotivated, or worthless? Or less than human? I don't understand. Is there some thing in the sky dictating rules every day for us to live by? Why don't birds have rules dictated to them? They live. We don't.
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