the choice to heal

The last few weeks have been hard. They have been painful, and they have been enlightening.

I spent about an hour of my life yesterday sobbing. It started with the typical girly frustration over finding something to wear, and quickly deteriorated into the disillusionment of my dreams and the invalidation of my soul.

I am accused, quite often, of being too emotional. However, the past year I have more than once been concerned with my lack of feeling, my newfound ability to become numb. Yet still, I am accused of being too emotional. Of ‘taking life too seriously,’ ‘thinking too much’, and my favorite – being ‘crazy.’

I refuse to see how it is crazy to look around at the world and want more – to expect more from people. It is not crazy for me to refuse to have my life determined by other people’s values and other people’s expectations. I respect everyone else’s decisions, and yet, somehow, my every breath becomes belittled and questioned for its sanity.

I should clarify, because I by no means intend to generalize here, or refer to everyone in my life. I am referring to the closest people – to the members of my world that are vital and very powerful in my life. Some people’s advice on this is I should simply remove these people from my life. However, family is a very important value to me, and I have fought this long to keep mine relatively intact.

On the other hand, I am finding it hard to breathe.

Each day I am attacked, in various ways, and then accused of being sensitive or paranoid. I am invalidated in ways I never could have imagined another person could make me feel. Perhaps it is true – perhaps I am sensitive, but in that case I do not understand how some people get treated with respect, regardless of their ‘sensitivities,’ while others are not.

I am a giver. I give of myself, with unending grace and understanding. This is a quality that is very important to me, and I want to continue to be a person who assists others in opening their eyes to beauty, and giving themselves chances to live more fully, more authentically.

But I am disheartened. And if I shared my feelings with anyone to which I refer, they would merely tell me that I am not well, I am depressed, and that I need help. However, I am not depressed, and I do not need help. In fact, never before have I realized the true potential of my Self – of the fluidity in which people may effect the world if they merely take the effort to stand. I am aware more than ever of my gifts, and my passion, and of the goodness that is laying latent within the earth. So I am not depressed – but I am disheartened.

Disheartened more than anything that the people in my life all hate each other (and sometimes me) almost as much as they hate themselves.

Perhaps hate is a strong word. Perhaps I mean they have merely become all too comfortable in their bitterness and negativity (but let’s all call it being ‘realistic’ since it makes us feel like we’ve grown up, rather than given up.)

And I am disheartened that I have to edit my thoughts and my feelings, because they will never be accepted, or understood, by the people that truly matter to me. Disheartened that the previous paragraphs will probably get me accused of being everything I aforementioned. Because they are provocative, and they are honest, and they are far too Real for anyone in my life to deal with.

In the end, I am disheartened by my environment; it is quite obviously not one in which I can fly – I am barely allowed to glimpse at the sky without being called a tree-hugging, over-emotional dimwit. It has become terribly apparent to me that my choices are dwindling, and I may have to leave. As much as I like my home, my New England, and I feel comfortable here, I am realizing that perhaps God does not wish for me to be comfortable. Every time I have found a modicum of comfort, happiness, and peace in Massachusetts, life has brought me pain too palpable to ignore.

Great choices are made when we are uncomfortable – when our discomfort and our pain force us to find a new path, one in which we can breathe, and grow.

So perhaps I have to ask my pain what it wants from me. I think perhaps I have just repeatedly bandaged myself up, and then wondered why I still find myself bleeding all over the ground. I have covered and recovered a wound, without healing it from within.

I have reached a point where I either learn to become numb to the pain, or I make the choices necessary to heal.

For I know, deep down, that only then… when I heal… do I have the opportunity to do something truly great, truly grace-full… truly holy… with my life.

But I have no idea whether I will be strong enough to take the bandage off the bleeding wound.


I just realized a few crucial things.

First of all, I barely know anybody who is happy. And I don’t even mean ‘truly’ happy – I mean happy in any form of the word. I mean mediocre happy. I barely know anybody who is mediocrally happy.

Secondly, the crucial people in my life want me to surrender. They want me to SURRENDER. They want me to surrender myself. My values. My dreams. My authenticity.

Thirdly, people are asleep. They are blind, and they prefer to be blind, because it’s safe that way. And if they stay that way, they never have to pay attention to my first point: that they are not even mediocre.

I could keep numbering my points, but I’m finding that terribly annoying.

In my head I’m thinking quotes like “rage against the machine” and “rat in a cage.”. I’m feeling trapped in a box that for some reason people are determined to keep me in.

Why? Why are people so AFRAID OF ME? Why do my ideas cause them such agitation, make them so uneasy? Why are my values and beliefs worth fighting with me over, and yet other people can be addicted to substances and money and sex, and that’s OKAY? That’s healthy. That’s normal. Would such “normalcy” in me actually placate these key figures in my life? Would they then desist, saying “She has a complete lack of respect for herself, and has traded dreams for reality – thank GOD.”

It all makes me sick. I don’t understand how people can live lives of such quiet desperation, and not do anything about it. And then EXPECT ME to do the same.

I’m ranting. And I’m angry.

I’m never angry.

But there are things to be angry about.

There are things we should simply not accept.

Random, and basically pointless.

For some reason, I had plenty of things I wanted to say yesterday, but not so much today. Hm. Guess that’s not really conducive to posting a new blog entry.

First of all, I’m back in the theater. I auditioned for a role in Alan Ayckbourn’s play, Woman In Mind. It’s being directed by Matt Carr, who is someone I truly respect and have always wanted to work with, as an actor. The best part is I landed the role I really wanted to get – the part of Muriel, the older, snippy (okay bitchy), somewhat deranged sister-in-law. So I’m really excited about the whole thing. It already feels great to be involved in the theater again.

I’ve also had existential crisis after existential crisis. I think I’ve calmed down a little, but I’m truly starting to grasp what Mr. Robbins meant when he warns his classes “Don’t start to think – it’ll ruin your life.”

Yes yes. Other than that… I’m just editing my historical romance like crazy, getting it primed for beauteous publication…!! I suppose I should start querying publishers….

Writing Fever

I haven’t posted in a while. I really had no idea what to say. Things have been happening, and my mind has been working overtime, but not coherently enough for me to manage a blog entry without sounding crazy. Yet I wonder if I ever really, truly, manage that!

I’ve started the novel for November – I have over 20,000 words. I’m basically pulling from my old entries here, and then re-writing them in a different tense, and often in a different way, to make it more descriptive.

However, as I was cleaning my room these past few days (weeks) in a desperate attempt to throw away ANYTHING that didn’t represent the future I want for myself, and the present person I am, I found something delightful. I found my Word Document of the book I wrote a few years back, Keeping Pace! I started this thing when I was 13, and finally finished at age 20. I submitted it to Harlequin, was rejected, and then the next thing I knew I was graduating college and starting my masters and getting my heart broken, and suddenly it got put to the side. And when I wanted to do something with it again, I realize that I had completely lost the computer copy of it – all I had was 341 pages in my hands, and no one really wants to retype 341 pages.

I had finally resolved myself to edit the hard copy, and retype the million (341) pages, when then I started my memoir and became excited about writing again. I also started putting together a publishable collection of poetry, so I would start taking that seriously, as well. The next thing I know, I found an unmarked CD, pupped it in the Macbook, and tada!! There was a folder entitled “Keeping Pace.” I literally couldn’t breathe for a few minutes when that Word document opened and it was all there.

So now I have three books in the works. All that need either some major writing or editing done, but books, nonetheless. NOW is the time for me to put all my effort into this – because what else do I have going for me? I’ve applied for a job, and I work on Saturdays for Sandisk, but other than that I lounge about and then go to the gym for a few hours. Which is all well and good, but if I could replace some of that lounging with editing, marketing, and eventually publishing my work – well then. Well then, my life could be brand new, and be more in line with the dreams I have always had for myself. 🙂

November: Novel-writing Month!

I know very little about it, but I do know that November is supposed to be the month to write a book. A book in 30 days. I was supposed to motivate myself enough last year to do it, but I didn’t. So here I am, determined. This November is wide open to me – a huge blank canvas to fill with whatever I wish. Nothing makes more sense than to do this.

I started writing about 40 minutes ago – so it has begun! The idea is this: a memoir. I am going to take my blogs from here, starting with the very first one, entitled “Wanderlust” and copy and paste a couple at a time into a new Word document. From there, I will fill in all the many, many blanks of my Americana roadtrip. I want a true, descriptive memoir of my travels across America, and now is the time to do that, for I know eventually the memories will start to fade. I’m nervous – about how much I will remember (or forget) and even about the accuracy of my accounts, but at the same time, I’m excited. I know what I did this past summer was exciting and brave, and that is something I need to share with the world. I need to let others know that it is never too late, or too hard, to change the course of your life, or to heed those secret whispers of your soul.

So wish me luck! I will try to keep you updated as best as possible – I only hope that I stick to a semi-strict schedule of writing each and every day, in order to have a rough draft of a full memoir completed by the end of the month. 🙂 I can do this… I can I can.