Category Archives: The Good Moods

I have a new therapist and she is…ME

Hey strangers. Soo…how’s life? Good? Good! I’m so glad. Oh, me? What have I been doing? Well…

Law school. Yowza. Where to begin?  Back when I was applying to schools, a bunch of people warned me not to go to law school; and while I am not even remotely wishing I had listened, I understand why they did: law school is NOT EASY. Is it the hell people made it out to be? Far from it, but that’s probably because I am certain that this is what I am supposed to be doing with my life. So if you are pondering taking the LSAT, maybe shooting out a few law school apps for the hell of it, ask yourself, “Do I really have any interest in the law/being a lawyer?” Because if the answer is NO you should NOT go to law school.

Just saying.

What else is going on? There’s some light tutoring, a lot of being stalked and nuzzled and stared at by my dog, the occasional kitchen foray, and a boy occupying my time. (Like, the best boy. The weirdest, dorkiest, sweetest, adorablest, smartest, funniest, wonderfulest boy. Just saying.) Oh, and sometimes I sleep. Every now and then.

So with all those things on top of endless reading/writing/research/studying/confusion, I am midway through my first semester of law school and I am starting to lose my shit.

I admit it. There’s stress and then there’s STRESS. I am not yet STRESSED, but I’m getting there. I’m stressed.

I have sought various methods to healing with this mounting stress level: healthier eating, allocating more time for drowsy resty sleepy time, running, vitamins, less caffeine, etc. I’m even debating maybe taking advantage of the counseling offered at school. But you know what has worked most effectively so far? Reading this here blog.

Yeah, I’m my own therapist. It’s weird. I know.

Seriously though, rereading my own musings and mullings and meanderings has given me so much perspective. Comparing where I was then to where I am now helps first and foremost: I’m moving up in this world. I AM! But also, I was a smart cookie with some damn good advice: e.g. “The more good you concentrate on, the more good you see. Building momentum in a happy, hopeful direction can only make your life better.” Helpful, that is!

I’ve kept a few journals in my day, and when I look back at them I never fail to squirm and loathe who I once was. But reading this blog makes me feel…better. Healthier. Less…stressed. My 2011 self is giving my 2012 self advice…and it’s improving my quality of life!

It’s like time travel!

Hey, I am not trying to toot my own horn here. I’m neither a mentor nor a wizened soul. I am just a lost and loopy twenty-something who occasionally babbles in a public forum. And once in a blue moon, hidden in all that babbling, there is nestled a nugget of wisdom that resonates with those of us having quarter-life crises. This week, reading my own words has brought me some solace and sanity that I really really needed. I can only hope I have similarly helped anyone else who has had the misfortune to be sucked into my ramblings.

My craziness…bringing sanity…I never thought I’d see the day.

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The Writing on this Wall

This evening I had a very brief but very meaningful exchange with a dear friend. He said, “I’m not a secretive guy, so it’s hard for me when everyone is secretive.” And in a fit of unexpected honesty I replied, “I’ve always had issues with owning my life. Like, I’d rather not apologize for it, so I hide it, which ends up sucking for me and, more importantly, for those around me. I should grow up.” And while he kindly made excuses for me, I realized that what I said was so so right and something I had thought for a long time, but never said. And in saying it, I felt it–I felt ashamed.

I have, too often, been incapable of owning up to my own choices. Even when I feel not at all misguided or unwise in my decisions, even when I would have no problem defending my path should I be confronted, I go to great lengths to avoid such a confrontation. Like, when I decided to move in with my significant other (*cough* in hindsight maybe that was a misguided decision, but at the time it seemed like a good plan. Sue me. *cough*) all those years ago, I tried to keep it from my very Catholic family for a long time. As a 21 year old woman who had willingly entered into an adult relationship, I shuddered at the thought of my family judging me for it. Judging me for what? Being human? Being *gasp!* normal?! I felt that there was nothing wrong with my actions, yet, because someone else might, I tried to keep my life under wraps.

How. Fucking. Pathetic.

I admire so much the people I know who are unapologetically and unabashedly up front about their lives (like her, and her). Having the confidence and the courage to say, “Yeah, this is me. This is my life. Not everyone is going to be OK with all of it. So-the-fuck-what?” is so incredible to me. I want to be that awesome. And I am going to be that awesome. Starting now.

I have wanted to write this blog for months, but I kept talking myself out of it with really weak ass excuses. So I am done.

This…finally…is the story of my tattoo.

First, if you don’t either know me personally or have never read this blog before, you might want to brush up real quick and read this post. But long story short, last fall my asshole father told me to get the fuck out of his house. So I did. It was really really scary to grab my purse and walk out the front door with no idea where I was planning on going or what I was going to do the next day…and the day after…and the day after…but I did it. I left. When, after several weeks, my father ate crow and said, for the first time in my life, “I’m sorry,” I was a little surprised but not impressed or moved, as he had so clearly expected me to feel. So when he said, “Just come home. Do it for your mother,” I surprised both of us by saying, “Don’t you dare tell me what to do for my mother. You want to do something for her? Quit drinking.” It was the bravest and the most self-assured I had ever felt in my entire life. And, needless to say, I didn’t move back in.

It is quite nerve-wracking to turn down a roof over your head and free food for uncertainty and homelessness, but, in that moment, the truly frightening thing would have been to be back under the roof of the man who tormented me most of my life. In that moment, I was fearless. And as I rode the high from that burst of bravery over the following weeks, I wanted nothing more than to feel that sense of sheer unstoppable courage in every aspect of my life. So, though I had not ever really thought of myself as the type to get a tattoo, I decided that that was just what I needed: a permanent and tangible something to remind me, every single day, of the bold, unafraid person I can be.

So I had “without fear” inked into my left ribcage…right next to my heart.

Every day, when I get out of the shower, I see those words on my skin, and they remind me that I don’t have to be intimidated by life. Life leaves its scars (I have 98 visible ones so far, and many more invisible), but worrying about the pain that’s to come hurts just as much–if not more–than the actual pain when it happens. I will live a much fuller life if I hope and love and experience as much as I can without fear.

Now, I am in no way saying I am fearless. LORD, no. But I am a less fearful work in progress. When I start shying away from good things, simply because they might go away at some point, I give myself a shake or a slap and say, “HEY! You’re wasting time being afraid. Knock it off!” and then I try to forge ahead with a little more courage and a slightly higher held head. And when I step outside myself and do things that are foolish or risky and then suddenly feel a little more alive, I know I am becoming the kind of person I want to be: the kind of person who has “without fear” scrawled across her ribs.

Have a problem with what I just told you? Sorry, but I’m not sorry.

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Sometimes the greatest gift you can give yourself is permission to be lame

The life I lead currently and the life I lead 3 months ago are two very different animals: like, I was a hamster, running on my sad little wheel, and then overnight I evolved into a carnivorous capybara.

(Attempted Pokemon reference FTW!)

You see, approximately 2 hours after I became a single girl, before I had even packed my first box or properly grieved my newly-ended relationship, I informed one of my friends–Jessica, single girl extraordinaire– that she and I would be spending a lot more time together. Well that lovely girl went all momma bird and took me under her wing, and I have been her apprentice ever since.

Most nights of the week I am instructed to meet her and her partner-in-crime Jen at one bar or another. I am resistant to this midweek debauchery: it’s a foreign concept to me, drinking on a Tuesday (a.k.a. Boozeday). But I have pretty swiftly adopted their live-for-the-weekend mindset, and I look forward to putting on my Hot Girl Disguise (thank you to Jenna Marble’s for inventing that term) and tipping back a drink or two at the bar with the girls every Friday. I can count on J & J to be doing something fun (if not certainly alcohol-related) at any moment of the day, and I feel honored to have been accepted into their topsy-turvy Do-I-Look-Hot-in-This? world.

The funny thing is, as much fun as I have been having with them, your average person find my recent behavior very strange: I wear sneakers and pigtails; I laugh at comma placement and enjoy children’s television; I listen to alternative music. So when I don 4-inch heels and dance to Usher songs in a crowded club, it seems out of character. I understand that viewpoint, I do; frankly, it felt very odd zipping up that first cocktail dress and walking around that bar looking for my friends. But I think that’s why I’m so enjoying it: it’s not the norm for me. It’s an Amp-like thing to do. Or, as Jess and Jen have taken to calling me, Spicy Pam.

So for several weeks, this has been my life: receiving text messages all week from the girls asking, “Is it friday yet?”; getting instructions on Friday about what time to meet them at the bar, and to dress cute, goddamn it; sipping Manhattans till midnight, then I sober up so that I can drive; dancing, and rejecting the weird men who attempt to molest me on the dance floor; Coney Island at 2:0o in the morning; finally, gloriously, sleep around 4:00AM. Repeat (sometimes) on Saturday, and once on a very odd Sunday. Wait for the next weekend all over again.

It’s not a bad life. I have had a lot of laughs, quite a few cocktails, and a couple hangovers; I have made a few good friends, a couple great friends, and maybe one or two enemies (well, maybe I wouldn’t go that  far, but they are certainly persona non grata);  I have kissed a girl, a couple boys, and have taken many ridiculous OMG-We’re-at-the-Bar! photos like so:

So cliche, so tacky, so fun

I have had very very much fun and do not regret a minute of it.

So all of that said, I am so fucking tired.

Having a life is exhausting.

I just a need a friggin’ break.

Jess is leaving for Law school soon, so I have been trying my best to power through and keep on partying it up till she departs.  This past Friday, come 10:00PM, I was tired and cranky and had resolved myself to simply staying in, but instead of sticking with that healthy plan, I stayed up until 5AM playing monopoly and drinking too much wine. Fun, but not smart. I was a zombie for most of yesterday, nearly falling asleep at the wheel and barely able to sit at the dinner table without collapsing with my face in the jambalaya. When I returned home from my aunt’s house, I was just passing out when I got the “You coming out?” text. I said I needed a nap and I’d meet them at midnight. Well, that never happened. At 11:30 when my alarm went off I said, “Mmm mm, no way, fuck it,” changed into more sleep acceptable clothes, and curled up with my dog.

But oh shit, it was a Saturday night! I was supposed to be getting hammered or getting hit on or complaining about how I don’t know how to dance with guys! Well, at least that’s what I was thinking last night as I was dozing off. Just as I’d drift off I’d pop back up and think about how pathetic it is to go to sleep early on the weekend and how my friends were out expecting me to join them and I felt vaguely guilty and very very lame.

But I finally told myself that maybe, just maybe, it’s ok to turn the Amp off once in a while. Maybe Spicy Pam can go in the closet for a night and I can be just Pam. Maybe I’m allowed to be lame. Once I granted myself that it was like the Heavens parted and the angels sang and it was raining gumdrops and my cat’s whiskers were rainbows and…

You get it. I got to sleep. And it was amazing.

We all need to be kind to ourselves now and then. A little self-forgiveness for our inadequacies, a little sympathy, it goes a long way to maintaining our happiness and our sanity. And as someone with a weak ass immune system, being kind to myself means letting myself rest. Telling a friend recently that I am old and get tired early prompted him to say, “Psh, sleep when you die.” Well, let’s be honest, if I don’t sleep I will die. So, I am not taking that sage advice.

I can be a “spicier” version of myself. I can say “yes” to experience and “no” to boredom and loneliness. I can Amp it up. But I am also allowed to know my limits and have the self-love to act accordingly. I am allowed to have mercy on me. And I am 100% allowed to sleep on a Saturday when I am deathly tired and not feel like I wasted my weekend. It takes a certain amount of courage to do what is right for you even when it’s not the popular option. So, frankly, by being lame, I was Being Brave (yay Return of the Mantra!). By turning down the volume I was actually being totally Amp: she is not afraid to be true to herself. EVER.

Awesomeness through lameness. It happens.

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I was dreaming when I wrote this

It is nearly 2:00AM where I sit right now, and I should be tired. But I am not. I have too many thoughts, too much music in my head right now to sleep. And not just actual songs–though those are certainly present: one lyric after another streaming through, one bass line overlapping another, drums and drums and drums–but also the music of the rain, the music of my dog’s slow breathing next to me, the music of my the computer keys under my rapidly moving fingers. It’s so mesmerizingly distracting.

For the record, I am not on drugs.

I have had this one line running on loop in my mind for a few weeks now, and I have to share the series of emotions and thought bubbles it has inspired. No one who has read this blog before will be surprised that the line is from a 30 Seconds To Mars song, A Beautiful Lie:

“Lie awake in bed at night, and think about your life. Do you want to be different?”

My response to that question is a loud and resounding YES.

YES, I do want to be different. In so many ways that I can’t even bear it sometimes.

The first way in which I wish to be different is that I do not want to be an asshole. Is that crude? I’m sorry. But, frankly, I am disheartened by the number of just unfriendly human beings I encounter on a daily basis. I am always pleasantly surprised to encounter kind, sociable people, but I shouldn’t be. Kind and sociable should be the norm. I should not be taken aback when someone holds open a door for me, or smiles at me as we cross paths when I’m out walking my dog, but I am. I am always dumbfounded when I meet other nice people, because it doesn’t happen enough.

That. Is Tragic.

So, yes, I wish to be different and be (pardon me while I utilize an old church analogy) a light for the world rather than a black hole sucking the light from the sky. I try to smile at everyone I can, from the grumpy teller at the bank, to people who pull up next to me at red lights. I try to make someone laugh every day because A) laughter is a cure all for them and B) for me, making others laugh is the greatest feeling in the whole wide world. I want to be one of those people that you meet and in a seconds-long encounter, your day is changed for the better. It depresses me to think that I have ever made anyone sad–and I know I have in the past, and I am sorry–but I hope from here on to only (or at least, mostly) bring happiness. I owe that much to the other nice people in the world: a little reciprocity.

But I am also a conceited little fuck and want to be different for the sake of…not being like anyone else.

If my parents got one thing right with me, it is my name. I LOVE the name Pamela. Spot on, ‘rents, spot on. I mostly loved that name as a child because no one else my age had it. There were a handful of Amandas, a couple Nicoles, plenty of Jessicas, but just one Pamela, and that ROCKED. I never appreciated the existence of Pamela Anderson in the world, particularly when my 3rd grade teacher made that my nickname, but for the most part I enjoyed my unique title. I wasn’t always so down with being different, but sometimes, your soul just takes over and originality happens.

Destined to be different

I also learned from an early age that scars are cool. I have over 80 scars on my body, and while I don’t remember where all of them came from, I do have a story for most of them: the dime-sized spot on my forearm is where my dad’s parrot took a chunk out of me for no reason except it is the devil; the raised purple knob on my knee is where a piece of my high school track is still embedded from falling flat on my face during my first ever track meet; the long thin line on my toe is where a screw wedged itself once; the spot next to my right eye is where my mom cut me with a poorly sharpened eyeliner pencil while getting me ready for my dance recital as a tot. I adore each and every one of my scars because they are proof of the life I have lived. Even the crack in my skull, the one that you can follow with your finger from my hairline down to my eyebrow, is a wonderful part of me that I embrace, for had I no scars, that would have meant I have lived a safe (and utterly BORING) life. Each time I fell off my bike, that was a life experience I wouldn’t give up for anything. Each time my brother pinched me with his dirty little fingernails causing tiny infections all over my arms and eventually leaving a dozen little pockmarks, those were…well, not great experiences, but they shaped me. All my “flaws” are evidence of the life I’ve lived up until now, a life that is all mine, not yours.

Over the years, learning to appreciate what makes me different has led me to yearn for even more originality. I don’t want to be like anyone else but me, thanks. When people say, “You know who you remind me of?” my heart sinks a little, because I only want to remind you of Pamela Wall. I want to be so badly one of those people with a certain je ne sais quoi. I have an asymmetrical face, crooked ears, an annoying voice, and enormous and intrusive hand gestures: you should remember me, goddammit. I am flattered when people tell me I look like Chyler Leigh but I don’t see it, and I don’t want to see it: she is a perfect china doll, and I only wish to be imperfect, lopsided, lovable me. Is that so much to ask?

I am always looking for more ways to be more like myself, more ways to show the world who I am inside. And, you know, that’s not an easy task, seeing as some people don’t want me to be me. Ralph Waldo Emerson is my hero, and he said something that I tell myself on a daily basis:

“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.”

Fuck yeah, it is. I have people telling me how to look, how to behave all the time: don’t cut your hair, be more like a girl, stop wearing Converse All-Stars, stop being so loud, CALM DOWN. Well, guess what, if I want to chop off my hair, I’m fucking going to. I am a girl, even if I don’t fit your form of what a girl should be. My Cons are my FAVORITE and I will not give them up for anyone or anything and why do you care what I put on my feet anyway?! I AM loud: I am Polish and Italian, it happens. And I will NOT calm down. I am a high-strung crazy chick and I know it, but I thrive on a good dose of anxiety, I get help when it gets to be too much, and it’s up to me to decide which it is, thank you very much. It is real work to ignore all the voices pressing in every day, but when I do, that’s when I feel right. I feel good. I feel…like myself.

In my still-rocking Be Brave phase, I want all the more to stand out from the crowd. I happily danced, sang, and skipped on a 4-mile walk with my dog the other day, and it was SO FUN. I got some weird looks from passing cars (well, actually, the cars didn’t look at me, they’re cars. The people inside the cars did, if I’m using correct English) and a few people who were hanging out on their porches laughed (I’m assuming at my singing which is unabashedly awful) but so what? Even if I see these people again, will they know it was me? And frankly, if I saw a girl skipping down a main drag I’d say, “Damn, that girl has flair.” I’d like to think I have flair. I try to have flair. I hope to someday have flair.

YAY FLAIR.

Anywho, I keep humming to myself and answering the “Do you want to be different?” question with a soul-shaking “affirmative!” I’ve never felt like I fit in, so why should I try now when it is so much more fun sticking out like a sore, goofy thumb. It might embarrass the people around me but, clearly, if they’re embarrassed of me then I don’t really need them around and they can fucking leave. I am staying right here, with my purple converse, my nerd glasses, and a smile, because life is so much more fulfilling when I get to be myself, unashamed and unrefined.

Aaaaaand, now it’s 3:00AM, and the music plays on and on and on and…

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My Thoughts Create My World

Long, long ago, in a galaxy that looks an awful lot like the one we’re living in, I read a book called The Secret. Even as I was immersed in it, I found very much of its content to be…a bit loony (though I should have suspected that before even opening to the first page: Rhonda Byrne, the author, looks more than a tad batty).  The concept is very much along the lines of magical thinking: that if you tell The Universe what you want, and you think long and hard enough about it, and you really believe it is not only possible but will come to be, then it surely will. I’m paring it down quite a bit, but that’s pretty much the point.

Here’s a brief illustration of how far this philosophy (for lack of a better term) tries to go. There is a story in the book about a man who drew, in great detail, a feather. The man looked at the picture of the feather dozens of times a day, and concentrated all his mental energy on that feather. And after a few days, what came drifting to his feet but the exact fucking feather! MAGIC! Let us all be convinced of this way of thinking because of this anecdote!

No, I’m kidding. Do not be convinced of this way of thinking because of the feather. Do not be convinced of this way of thinking. I am not Augusten Burroughs. I do not think, nor have I ever thought–unlike Mr. Burroughs–that if I concentrate really hard on, say, someone dying, that they will die.  If that was possible, well, I’d have committed patricide long long ago.  I do not think that just because you really want something and think about it a lot, that you will certainly get it (how many people can hope and pray to win the Mega Millions and actually win?) and I do not think that if you do not get something you want it’s all because you didn’t believe hard enough. That’s what The Secret tries to argue. I do not buy into it.

HOWEVER, I do believe in the very real power of positive thought.

When I picked up The Secret, I was going to weekly therapy sessions, and had been told by a psychologist that I was bipolar. (Actually, what she said was that I had some of the symptoms of depression, and some of the symptoms of manic depressive disorder but didn’t really fit the bill for either. That didn’t stop her from handing me a 60-day trial of meds, however. Quack.) I had originally gone to see a counselor at my university because my family problems had been wearing on me for too long and I just needed someone to talk to. She put me in touch with a real therapist, and thus my brief foray into the mental health arena began.

Once a week I sat and talked about all sorts of shit I went through in my life, starting as far back as I could remember. She never once asked me how I was feeling that day, or how my current life was going; she simply wanted to pick up where we had last left off: “So, last time, we were talking about your memory of handing your crying mother Kleenex…let’s start from there.” The more I talked about my less-than-stellar past, the more morose I felt. I was drowning in bad memories. But after reading just a few pages of The Secret, I realized that I was doing myself more harm than good by continuing my therapy. I quit my sessions the next day, started focusing my energy on the good things in my life, and just told myself that even if my past wasn’t “resolved,” that didn’t mean I had to dwell on it. And, miraculously, I was cured! Or at least, I was smiling again. And frequently.

Thoughts, I feel, have inertia: once they build momentum in one direction, it’s difficult to change their path. When you allow yourself to wallow in unhappiness, you find yourself seeing all the negative in the world, and missing all the positive. Now, Ms. Byrne would say that by thinking about negative things you are asking the Universe to send you more negative. I’m sorry, you are not a magnet, and sometimes, shit happens. We get bummed out. It’s not your fault that in every life a little rain must fall, and sometimes, when it rains, it fucking pours. BUT, that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t all try to put our thoughts on a positive path. The more good you concentrate on, the more good you see. Building momentum in a happy, hopeful direction can only make your life better.

Another valuable little nugget I sifted from the rubble of The Secret is that you need to make what you want very clear–not to The Universe, or to the Lotto gods, but to YOURSELF.

We live in a world in which we are bombarded, beaten and berated by images and sounds and smells of things we are supposed to want. How many billboards, print ads, television commercials, and Facebook sidebar blurbs do you encounter every day? A lot, I’d wager. The purpose of those ads is to make you want something. Or at least believe, for a brief moment, that you want it so that you might get it.

But you know what? You probably don’t give a flying fuck about 99% of the bullshit that passes before your eyes. The bright colors and jingly songs might draw your attention, and marketing is a dastardly art form that can be quite hypnotizing, but how often do you see an advertisement for Cinnamon Toast Crunch and linger on it for days out of utter want? OK, maybe that wasn’t a great example because as a recovering sugar addict, I can linger on Cinnamon Toast Crunch for quite some time…but you get my point. It is honestly difficult to decipher what we really desire anymore, because everyone else thinks they know better than we do.

So when the time comes when you have a very real want, that is important. It is meaningful. We’re always seeking ways to make ourselves happier, but feeling a real connection with something, truly believing it will put you on the road to a better phase of your life, you need to own that. Being able to say to yourself with conviction, “I want that job/house/partner/peace of mind/etc.” and mean it is a beautiful thing, and it should not be taken for granted. And by telling yourself, by saying, outloud “I WANT THAT,” you’re actually giving yourself permission to hope. And, more importantly, to do something about it.

There is something to be said for dwelling on the things we are striving for. If you are applying for a great job that you very much want to land, and you tell yourself all the time that you are qualified and would be great at it, and you daydream about how your life will be when you get it, wouldn’t you think that would affect how you approach applying? Wouldn’t you write a better cover letter because your head is already filled with your positive traits? Or walk into your interview prepared and confident because your mind’s inertia is already moving in that direction?

Cynicism is rampant these days–I should know, I’m the cynic sarcasmo supremo–so we tend to shy away from enthusiasm and hope. We’re often so afraid of disappointment that we would rather not want anything in the first place. But that line of thinking is all wrong. Your perception is your reality, and your thoughts, your mental inertia, color your perception. By simply stating your wants and your goals (maybe even writing them down) and then allowing yourself to fill up with anticipation and belief that these things are possible and that you’re worthy of them, well, that will open up a whole new world of possibilities. A few happy thoughts and a self-sure statement of purpose are the first steps to a bright and shiny future.

I’m a slightly noir chick. If I’m saying this stuff, well, you should just take my advice.

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That Familiar Old Itch

For a few weeks now, my self-confidence has been on the rise. Skyrocketing, even. Ever since adopting my new mantra (Be Brave) I’ve just been finding more and more reasons to believe that I’m AWESOME. And let me tell you, I spent a very large portion of my life being my own worst critic. So thinking positively about myself is still a bit new for me, but lordy, does it feel good! I am happy.

I like it.

This feeling of self-contentment is why I am so puzzled by the creeping on of another feeling: the urge to flee. This isn’t the first time I’ve just wanted to pack my bags and change up my life in a big way, but usually thoughts of flying the coop come along when I am MISERABLE, not happier than I have been in a LONG TIME.

I look at my life, and, frankly, there is nothing bad about it. I may not make much money, but what would I do with more money? I may not have my dream job, but my dream job is writing, and seeing as I’ve posted here more in the last week than I did in the first 2 months of this blog’s existence, clearly I am writing. I may not have a beautiful home but I have a homey home, and that’s what’s really important. I’m getting healthier and fitter by the day. And I’m loving myself. I have no complaints.

And yet.

And yet I am once again yearning to live in a studio apartment in a big city; or to backpack through Europe staying in dingy little hostels; or to just drive my car as far as I can until I almost pass out behind the wheel, and then wherever I end up I camp out there for a week or two, and then move on. I am simply itching to shake up my life, even though my life has finally become such a contented little snowglobe.

Why? Why am I considering give up something so good? I don’t know that I’m even considering it, but the thoughts are coming and going as they please with greater frequency these days. I find myself day-dreaming about moving to Chicago and marching into every company that has a position I wouldn’t suck at and demanding that they hire me until someone finally breaks down and does, and then I find a cute little loft and I buy really chic business clothes and I make new friends and I get to spread my cramped, sore wings. This day-dream is also becoming a night dream, by the way.

So again, I wonder, why? Why do I feel suffocated and smothered now? Here’s my guess: Because of that stupid self-confidence. Because I am feeling so goddamn good about myself, I’m wondering how far I can push myself? I’m curious about how I would do on my own in a new place surrounded by strangers? Would I shrink back into the self-doubting little shell of a person I was even a few months ago, or would I continue thriving?

Or, and this is the really BIG question: Could I possibly become even happier with myself if I was doing something else?

I don’t want to answer that question just now. Because if I do, and the answer is yes, then everything will change. Everything. And as brave as I’ve been trying to be, I don’t think I have the courage to push myself out of my entire comfort zone all at once.

Maybe the itch will go away. Or maybe I can give it a little scratch by taking a brief trip. Road trip, anyone?

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Filed under self-reflection, The Good Moods, The Good Moves, Wellness