This morning I started to feel a tiny bit guilty about how neglected the Candy Jar has been. A LOT of good stuff has happened that I haven’t written about or bothered to share.
A lot of not-so-good-holy-shit-I’m-stressed stuff has happened, too…which is probably the explanation for my exodus from reality.
If you look closely at the cover, you will see my name is proudly embedded into a red Solo Cup, surrounded by the names of many creative, talented and pretty fucking awesome authors.
You should buy one or 1000 copies of this book.
Flash fiction is SUPER fun to read and these books are perfect gifts.
So, buy them.
And in other news, I’ve returned to the classroom and my bittersweet relationship with my job, trying to figure out how I can make something I do a pretty decent job of into something that actually provides me enough money to pay the rent.
I’ve written at almost the entire first draft of my dissertation. Between Friday afternoon to Monday afternoon, I wrote almost 30,000 words, with only a short little chapter 5 left to write.
My typers have been busy.
But, these are all excuses.
I’ve played a bit of a disappearing act because I needed to.
And even as I write this in somewhat of a slipshod kind of way, I’m wondering if maybe I need to do a bit more disappearing.
I haven’t been able to, and continue to struggle, with anything that pretends to be coherent.
Too many unfinished thought, undeveloped ideas, and utter confusion and loss and chaos wrapped up into poorly written posts.
So, I never hit publish.
I have slowly been eaten away by anxiety.
Anxiety of “what now” and “what next” and “how am I going to get there” pollute the entirety of my days.
A therapist/friend keeps reminding me that it’s “normal” and I need to face the past two years of my life again. Through new eyes and new perspective.
She thinks I need to relive and revive emotions and release them.
She thinks I need to reintroduce the last few years of my life so I can let go of them instead having to bury them to move on…which, apparently, is what I have been doing.
She thinks I have a lot of moving on to do.
She thinks that once I can leave my emotional abyss, the anxiety will start to decrease.
I told her, “Dude…I just need some drugs to make everything even again”
And her response was “this isn’t anything a glass of wine and a bite of honesty won’t fix”
And, she is probably right.
While drinking in her words, I think that I’ve withdrawn a bit.
And doing what I do best, I withdrew into a land of excuses and distractions.
Doing whatever I could to not stop and not think, fully cognizant of the fact that this is exactly what has allowed me to not face life for so long.
I spent so much time doing, I never have to stop and just Be.
I spent an exorbitant amount of time doing so I don’t have to come to face with what Being means.
I know I’m not comfortable with my Being.
And I’m avoiding it.
Knowing, that the second I stop doing, I will have to come to face with myself.
And admit I don’t like where I am.
And admit, I don’t know how to leave.
Long story short?
I keep moving, powering ahead, for the sole purpose of avoiding myself.
And in the movement ahead and active avoidance of self, I withdraw.
I push back and push away.
This round I pulled back even from the Candy Jar.
So, here I am.
Attempting to write something that makes sense, knowing that nothing else in my life really does make sense.
I’m writing, perhaps, because I need something tangible of my existence. Something I can physically hold on to when everything, and everyone else, is a flooding river of unpredictability and fluidity; passing moments and breaths and emotions that I really just can’t grasp on to strongly enough to recognize as being real.
I’m living life in a fog.
And unhappy and incomplete fog.
My life is damp and uncomfortable.
Hard to breathe.
Hard to move forward because it is impossible to predict what happens with each passing step.
I keep coming back to this place.
The same place I know I am sent back to relive until I learn the lessons embedded in it.
At this point, all I can say is that I am more confused than ever and feel like I am softly disappearing into the forgotten creases of life.
But, here I am.
Back in the Candy Jar.
With the hope that through writing that tiny pinpoint drop of light at the end of the tunnel will guide me out of the fog.
And no longer will I be, missing in action.