life is a blessing, this much i know

Trying to get back into the swing of things after my crazy weekend… It’s weird, because life never really gives you time to process things as they happen. Even afterwards, life is always moving forward, hurtling toward some unseen goal. You can write about it, think about it, but there’s always something new bearing down on your mind and demanding your attention. You can try to compartmentalize, but you can never really get it down properly.

I think I made some new friends over the weekend, which is pretty cool. I met so many interesting people in Vancouver. I was totally outside myself the entire weekend, chatting with strangers and being really friendly. It was really refreshing after being so focused and driven here for the last few months. I have to focus so much on school, work, my various other obligations, and my writing that I don’t go out and socialize nearly enough. It’s true that I can be very much a loner by nature, but really it varies with my mood and what’s going on in my life.

I had a meeting with my fiction professor today about a story I turned in for class. I’d already confessed that it was actually a section out of my novel, so we talked a bit about the book itself, and the process of writing one. I was telling him how intimidating it felt to start it, and how everytime I sit down to write anything I feel a lot of panic and pressure. He told me, “You just need to decide that you’re allowed to create things. Painters don’t look at the canvas and go, ‘Am I allowed to put paint there?’ You have to stop doing that to yourself.” Easier said than done, surely. Still, he’s right. More than anything, I need to learn to save my judgments on quality until I’ve at least finished the writing.

Tonight will be a fun night. I’m going to be doing revisions for a bit. This is the part where I get to use all that judging of quality. Wah.

(listening to: Lou Rhodes, “Each Moment New”)

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love’s a thousand faces, but for me yours is it

I was talking earlier with a friend I’ve known for a few years — someone who didn’t know me when I was younger and full of confidence, who met me when I was headed slowly on my downward spiral of the last decade or so. His perspective is always a little different than it is with people who have known me all along, although he’s always maintained that he knows what I’m capable of being. He says the difference between me now and the person I was when I first met him is extremely noticeable. He actually commented that who I am now is intimidating for him because I’m so secure in myself, so happy with who I am.

This is somewhat parallel to a conversation I had with my parents on the phone the other day. We talked about how different I am now, and how I wouldn’t have gone through these changes if I had stayed home. These conversations made me think a little more closely about the changes I’ve gone through in the last few months. It’s not that I can ever not think about all of this — it’s always there — but sometimes it’s easy to lose myself in the moment, in the present, and not think about the journey that landed me here.

I’m still not sure how much of a person is their past, what portion of them is their present, or how much the future matters. It’s surely a combination of all these parts, but I get curious about what the precise composition is. Someone who meets me tomorrow, for example, will have no idea of the arduous trek it took me to go from who I was even this time last year, to who I am now. Does that matter? Despite being glad to be free of the chains of the “bad” parts of who I have been in the past, I still think that it very much matters who I was. The negative aspects of my history used to feel like a heavy weight upon me, but now I feel that the burden is minimal. The analogy now is more like… A stew. Yes, I am a stew. There are so many parts, so many different, separate flavours, but they have all simmered together and made one whole taste. Ugh. It’s late, and I’m tired, so I will settle for this, ridiculous as it sounds. I think the analogy is due, in part, to missing my mother’s cooking. Her stew is amazing.

I just don’t want to forget where I came from. And if I have learned anything in my as-yet short time on Earth, it’s that life is cyclical. I don’t entirely trust that this newfound contentment and security will last. I spent time being secure and happy as a child, and then I had several long, difficult years as a teenager (as I know everyone must), then another couple of good years, followed by almost a decade of general unhappiness… Now here we are again. I am all too familiar with the knowledge that nothing good lasts forever, but I have also grown to understand that neither does anything bad last indefinitely. I can only do what I can to try to prolong the good, to try to contribute to my life and to the world around me to make it the best that I can. And I can be — and am — extremely grateful to the people who have loved me through all of this, the people who have supported me and helped me make these transitions. (Thank you. Thank you. Words can never express it properly. I love you.)

Going through these emotional “growth spurts” is surreal at times. I become headily aware of the changes I’m going through, of the differences between one minute and the next. And I wonder, eagerly, where I will be next.

(listening to: Trespassers William, “Far Too Far”)

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i’ve found my way but until then i’m only spinning

Last week, I made my very first adult purchase: I bought Tupperware. I had a gift certificate to Target that was probably a year old, and I finally had a good excuse to use it. I’ve actually been using the Tupperware bowls for dishes, as well as for storage, so I guess I’m not quite a grown up yet.

Today, I came home to a delightful surprise. A while ago, my best friend from high school and I got reacquainted on Facebook. Eventually we started e-mailing, these long-winded things where we talked about everything under the sun (mostly getting caught up on the last few years). These e-mails were reminiscent of the notes we used to pass in high school. I think we went through a few notebooks just with those. 🙂

Anyway, when I got home there was a package for me. She’d asked for my address but I figured it was just to put in the address book (I do the same thing). The box was full of all kinds of goodies: instant oatmeal, relaxing bath salts, granola bars, little munchie foods. I was completely taken aback. I opened the note that came with it. She said it was a “housewarming/care package,” and wrote about how she’d gone through a similar experience (moving far away from home, relationship falling apart, learning to be on your own, the works) and how these were things that helped her through her own hard times. The note also elaborated on a few encouraging points that were intended to make me feel better, and stronger (and succeeded!). Then she included some old photos from high school, some pictures from our senior all-night party and senior service day, photos of me and various old friends in an assortment of happy moments. On the envelope they came in, it says, “A couple of oldies, but goodies, to remind you of home.” There’s even a rubber duckie in there, I guess to go with the bath salts.

It’s funny how sometimes things seem to find you at just the right moment in time. I’ve had a lot of those occasions since I moved here — probably in part because I am perpetually in need of love and reassurances, and partly because I am one of the luckiest people in the world when it comes to being blessed with people who love me. I really am.

To those of you who just keep on being so loving, caring, kind, and supportive of me (even when I continue to give you plenty of reasons to stop): you have no idea how much it means to me, how much I appreciate it. I hope I’m able to reciprocate it enough, and if I’m not, I hope someday I will have it in me to be that good.

(listening to: Jack’s Mannequin, “Spinning”)

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look for me another day, i feel that i could change

I guess even writing daily isn’t really do-able, mostly because I feel like writing the same thing every day would be boring both for me and the reader, even the ones who love me and are bound to me by blood. Today, I ate food. I read a book for school. I slept. Today I was boring.

I had a migraine the last couple of days, the first one since I have been entirely on my own. I’ve had a few bad ones since I moved here, but there was always some way I could either take care of it or visit the emergency room to get it taken care of. I avoid the latter as much as possible, but these ones that go on for days with no end in sight are just ridiculous, and it seems a few doses of dilaudid and some nausea medicine is the only thing to reboot my system. This time, though, I had no idea where a hospital was or how to get to it, so I bunkered down in my room with a bag of ice on my face.

I still haven’t finished unpacking yet. I think part of me is hesitant to do so. It’s the same as how I am keeping a pile of boxes in the garage, because “I’ll need them to move home.” Yeah. Um, I can probably find new boxes a year from now. But if I get rid of them, I am actually stuck here. Maybe part of me thinks that if I live in a permanent disaster area (ie, my room), I won’t get too comfortable. I need to get over it, though, because living in a disaster area is making me very disheveled and disorganized in my day-to-day living.

The other day, I was going through an old backpack that I used to transport odds and ends during the move. I found photos from when I was in high school. A number of them were of me with assorted friends from high school — the people that are your friends because you are herded like cattle into the same corral day after day — but I found some that were from other more meaningful occasions. A photo of my brother and his wife on their wedding day, a photo of my father and I at the wedding rehearsal dinner, a photo of my grandparents dancing together at a wedding reception, photos from when I was a bridesmaid for someone I considered a very dear and beloved friend for many years. I found an assortment of photos of my nieces from their earlier years. I put them all up around my desk area so that everytime my eyes stray, I am surrounded by faces I love. The photos I have up of my nieces and nephews bring me a particular joy I can’t describe. Their little faces are so expressive, full of happiness and mischief, and my heart swells just thinking of them. If this is how it feels to be an aunt, I’m not sure my heart could handle being a parent. Sometimes I joke, though, that I shouldn’t have kids because I wouldn’t love my own as much as I love my nieces and nephews. I apologize to any unborn children that may or may not ever exist.

My Dad said something the other day that has had me thinking. It’s always been something at the forefront of my thoughts, in part because it’s always been the centre of my world. I am very homesick because I miss my family. If I go back and look at my journals (my need to document is a blessing and a curse) from the last several years, though, there is a lot of heartache and unhappiness to account for. That isn’t to say I blame my family, because I really don’t. What I mean is that… I spent a long time living at “rock bottom,” and there were often more overwhelmingly bad times than good. I can see why some people might be confused as to how I could be so homesick when moving here marked the end of a rather painful era for me. It’s simple, though. I was raised in a loving, and intensely emotional family, for better or for worse. I grew up with a sense that I am part of a larger unit. Now that I am away from the unit, I feel disjointed and out of place. I described it to my ex, as we were in the midst of breaking up (in part because he couldn’t understand this very topic), as being something like losing a limb. I spent the better part of my first months living here trying to tourniquet the wound. And it’s an exaggeration, surely, but it does feel that way to me at times. You hear a lot about the “phantom limb” phenomenon, and I feel similarly. I hear about my family’s lives going on back home, and the sensation of the limb is still there, even though it is not physically present. I am lucky that there is an abundance of ways to communicate with my loved ones, although it’s never quite the same as being there.

I’ve been told by numerous people (all of whom love me and perhaps say it for that reason alone) that this is a shining opportunity for me to reinvent myself and take the world by storm. I am slowly starting to believe it. I don’t feel like I need to be reinvented, necessarily, because I’m quite fond of some parts. There are other parts, though, that I will be glad to say farewell to forever, if I can. I’m not one to believe that a change of scenery automatically means everything will be different, but it helps. Sometimes, in my head, I liken the time I am spending now to an artisan crafting something in a workshop. I have the raw materials and I am welding and soldering and knitting and hammering away, trying to turn it into a masterpiece.

I’m still wishing the weather would get better. We had snow over the weekend, and that was upsetting. I’ve gotten spoiled since I moved here. I still mock the natives who complain about it being cold in the 40s, but if I’m being honest with myself, I should admit that it’s all too easy to slip into the habit of preferring the warmer weather. I want to spend more time outside, but not getting soaked or buried under snow. C’mon, spring!

(listening to: The Innocence Mission, “The Lakes of Canada”)

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embrace this joy, this pain — don’t miss this chance, it will not come again

This song (“Where the Moss Slowly Grows” by Tiger Army) reminds me of so many things, and encapsulates so many moments in my life. It is one of the most beautiful songs I’ve ever heard. It is full of joy and sadness and love. It brings to the forefront so many suppressed memories — breathtaking snippets of my past that are too beautiful or too tragic for me to keep in the foreground. Loved ones, funerals, first glimpses, losses, starry skies, ocean waves, learning experiences… I damn near start crying every time I listen to it, and it doesn’t matter how many times in a row I play it. Sometimes it gets to be too much and I have to push it away. Sometimes I listen to it as lovely, and melancholy, advice.

I didn’t accomplish much today. I hung up two garbage bags (I travel so classy) of clothes in my closet, which freed up some space in my room. Somehow, though, I managed to refill the space immediately after. Now it not only looks like I accomplished nothing, it appears I’ve actually made the mess bigger. There’s a squeamish fear in the back of my mind that this small mountain of stuff will devour me in my sleep. One good thing that came out of the shifting was finding my other towel (yes, I own two), and my bed sheets. No more sleeping on a scratchy mattress! And laundry has become slightly less pressing. Living on my own isn’t nearly as glamourous as I imagined when I was a child.

I’m still adjusting very slowly to my life here. I guess I don’t deal with change well. Sometimes I will be absorbed in something, and when I look up I seem to have forgotten I am here. I’ll hear something in the hallway and my first thought is that it’s one of my parents, or my sister. My heart breaks a little when I realize it’s a roommate or a cat. Part of me wishes it would stop, simply because the let down hurts more than I’d like it to. But I also don’t want it to go away because I don’t want to become so adjusted to this place that I begin to consider it home. I have a home. It’s a thousand miles from here.

My sister asked me the other day if I would be home for Easter. I won’t be. This will be the first real holiday that I won’t be home for, pretty much in the history of my life. I dunno if I’m ready for that, but I don’t really have a choice. I guess that’s my mantra lately — I’m not ready for anything, but it comes regardless and I have to live with that.

I’m thinking that tomorrow (today, now, I guess — pinched nerve in my back keeping me awake) will be a good day to take the bus downtown and spend the day at Powell’s. Powell’s (http://www.powells.com) is possibly the single greatest thing about Portland. 68,000 square feet of books? Over one million volumes?! Sign me up!

(listening to: Tiger Army, “Where the Moss Slowly Grows”)

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we will lie under different stars — i am where i am and you’re where you are

I haven’t been very good with my sleeping habits lately. I’m not sure what it is, but no matter how exhausted I try to make myself become, I can’t seem to go to sleep at a “reasonable” hour. Last night I fell asleep around 5am, and I got up at 10am and had a busy day. Yet here I am at 3am, feeling tired but not sleepy.

I didn’t used to understand that there was a difference between “tired,” and “sleepy.” When I went to Japan in high school, my host sister would tell me over and over that there was a very distinct difference between the two. I understood that there was a linguistic difference, but I didn’t think it was anything more than a cosmetic feature. In my head, if I was tired, then I was sleepy. And vice versa. Yet for her, there were mornings where she would sleep standing up on the train on the way to school, and tell me she was “sleepy,” and then later in the day she would be doing homework and tell me she was “tired.” It confused me then that the two could be different.

At the moment, I am profoundly tired. I think I have been tired since I moved to Portland. My eyes are weary, my various limbs have a dull ache, and I just feel worn out. I was moving heavy boxes and unpacking and organizing and etc. for a good part of the day. I should be tired! I should be sleepy! Yet I am only one of the two.

I know all the tricks in the book, too. Lay in the dark for some time before you even want to fall asleep. Stay in bed even if you feel restless. Don’t do anything in bed that you associate with being awake. Drink warm milk. Drink chamomile tea. I’ve tried melatonin. I took Ambien for a while, but I can’t afford it anymore — and I’ve been kind of proud of myself for not being on any artificial substances recently. That was one good thing that came out of me “growing up” out of my mother’s health care plan last year. My body isn’t loaded up with chemicals anymore. I’m slowly beginning to manage my various problems and issues on my own. (I do occasionally require medication for my chronic migraines, which sometimes ends up being anything from Vicodin to narcotics like Dilaudid. It’s something that I, as yet, can’t put an end to with or without medications, and the only thing I can do is treat the migraines as they occur. But I digress.) Anyway, the bottom line is that none of it has helped me sleep better, and even when I took Ambien I wasn’t waking up feeling rested, I was merely sleeping more.

My roommate suggested last week that my “energy fields are blocked,” and told me to try a community acupuncture clinic she uses. I don’t know about energy fields and meridians and all that, but I do know that there are many people out there who swear by acupuncture and deem it a life-changing treatment. I don’t know if it will help me sleep, but my roommate claims she has significantly more energy since she started going, and I’ve read a lot that indicates acupuncture can be at least somewhat beneficial in treating migraines, the symptoms of PCOS, depression, and other things that I wouldn’t mind having resolved. My doctor at school even suggested I give it a try since I’ve been having my usual bad ovarian cramping from cysts. The clinic in question has a sliding fee scale because the people who run it believe that acupuncture should be affordable to everyone (only in Portland, I swear). For $25 for the initial visit and $15 a session after that, I can have someone plant a dozen needles in my face!

One thing I have been having some luck with is my eating habits. Living on a shoestring budget actually has helped me make better choices about what I’m eating. Instead of giving in to every whim and craving, I’m asking myself serious questions about the quality and nutritional value of the food I am buying. Instead of eating junk food, I’ve been eating oranges. My meals are generally better portioned and contain a higher nutritional content than the way I was eating before. Sometimes I do eat a bowl of ramen, and once I ate a god-awful pastry from 7-Eleven, but then tonight I ate whole wheat noodles and tofu for dinner. It’s interesting how managing my money is forcing convenience out of my life, yet it’s also drawing in healthier habits. I still have no idea how to budget my money, and I spend more than an hour in the store comparing prices and reading labels, but I feel like I’m becoming more conscientious as a consumer, and treating my body better in the process.

Anyway… I guess it’s time to lay in the dark for a while and hope I fall asleep. Tomorrow I need to buckle down and finish my room, do some editing for work, and get a decent amount of reading done for class. I’m hoping if I write it publicly here, I’ll be more motivated to actually do it all. Heh.

(listening to: Trespassers William, “Different Stars”)

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