Tag Archives: sadness

A Beautiful Disaster

[I know, I don’t write enough. But I won’t start each few and far between post with an apology anymore…after this. Sorry.]

Once upon a time, at a sketchy university health center, a psychologist tried to tell me I was bipolar. The quack was wrong–I was merely going through puberty–but if she tried to diagnose me similarly right now, however, I might not think she got her doctorate from a correspondence school.

I have been a walking rollercoaster as of late. I feel so happy I could just die…and then so sad, and so very very lonely, I could just…die. It’s funny, I have some wonderful people in my life constantly trying to boost me up, but the higher they get me, the farther I fall.

The health nut part of me keeps thinking if I just get enough folate, keep exercising often, go back to yoga, then my mood will even out. The female part of me blames my uterus, my hormones, and my very chromosomes for making my batshit crazy like every other woman that ever lived. But the wise and the realistic part of me just knows that this manic-depressive/riotous laughter vs. heaving sobs/wide smiles and sullen frowns kind of existence is all part of being more myself.

Yeah, it’s an Amp thing.

When you take risks, when you go with gutsy truths over easy falsities, when you decide to actually live instead of merely survive, the stakes are significantly higher. So, naturally, the wins are all the more satisfying, but the losses get you where it really hurts. But no matter how much I hate moments like this–when I feel like I’m playing the fool in my own life, and I just want to become a permanent addition to my mattress–I know this is a much better life than the one I was living half a year ago.

So, yeah, I didn’t feel nearly as lost or confused then as I do now, and I had a certain amount of security in the day to day, and I even occasionally convinced myself I was “content,” if not happy–but I was a zombie. I was a stranger in my own life. Now, though I sometimes still look around and wonder where the hell I am and how I got here (metaphorically and, sometimes, literally), at least I am alive and feeling my way through it all: feeling so stupidly happy with friends I am tremendously lucky to have found; and feeling less than stellar emotions (sometimes with or because of those same friends, sometimes because I had to leave those friends, and sometimes for no reason that I can pinpoint) that bring back memories of an acne and misery riddled adolescence. My emotions are on hyperdrive and it’s exhausting and annoying…and I wouldn’t change a thing.

I look around at my current state of affairs, and it’s just a wonderful kind of chaos. Even when I am feeling down, I still can’t help but realize that I have it alright. There are people–real living, breathing people–who desire my presence in their lives. I have a future ahead of me that might not totally suck (as long as I stay strong and keep fighting for it); a future that will get me out of the suburban hell hole to which I always thought I was doomed. I have perfect teeth. I have parents that are misguided, and tragic, and so very stupid sometimes, but who still manage to make me feel loved (even though I try to hide from them as much as humanly possible). I have a decent sense of humor and an unmatched ability to laugh at myself. I have a brother for whom I would do anything, and who I hope is proud to say he’s related to me. I have the world’s best dog. I have a head of hair that’s finally thickening (thank you, iron supplements). I have more pairs of Converse sneakers than anyone in the world should own. And I have a wee, helium-y little optimistic voice in my head that insists that everything is going to be just fine.

And even sad Pamela knows that foolish little voice is probably right.

OK, most certainly right.

This life is a beautiful disaster…and it’s mine. I find myself so often glancing around at my little slice of the world with a smirk, a deep sigh and an eye roll. It’s absurd and silly and messy and stunning and pathetic and adorable and ridiculous …and I love it.

 

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She’s back

And by “She’s back” I do not mean, Pamela the blogger is back to…erm…blogging. Nay, I mean, a version of myself I hoped to never be again has made a sudden reappearance and it has shaken me so profoundly that it has inspired me to share my suffering with the one person who might still occasionally check this site for new ramblings.

And to you, sole follower, let me say I love you and appreciate your readership more than you could ever know.

So, last night, I attended the wedding of my oldest friend. Let me tell you, there is nothing stranger than seeing your childhood best friend–the girl you used to dance to “The Boy Is Mine” with– in a wedding gown. I am astounded and uncomfortable by how quickly time passes (and I wish it would stop). But, anyway, there I was, watching her glide around the dance floor with her father during the traditional Daddy/Daughter dance, and I suddenly found myself overwhelmed with sadness and grief that I did not know I still carried around with me, and I had to excuse myself to go bawl hysterically outside.

What. The fuck. Was that?

I was suddenly so aware of how different my relationship with my father is from one defined as healthy, let alone happy. I realized, watching them dance together, that the adoring gaze he bestowed upon his daughter was one my father has not bestowed upon me since I gained the ability to speak words. I know and have always known that my dad and I would never have a moment like the one that was playing out before my eyes, but I didn’t know that that fact upset me anymore.

Apparently, it does.

And today, the miserable feelings continue. I yelled at my mother for things that happened years and years ago, yelled at her for staying with this man I call a sperm-donor after some of the awful shit he put my brother and me through. And as always, she defended her actions, and revised history to make herself seem in the right. But instead of just rolling my eyes as I normally do, I began sobbing and had to curl up in bed.

I am a basketcase.

I have been able to calmly and casually talk about my POS childhood for several years now. I can mention to near strangers that my dad is an alcoholic without wincing. I have described the terrible night when my father permanently destroyed any hope we may have held onto of having a relationship here on this very blogsite for all the world to (theoretically) read. I had thought I had come to terms (as well as someone can) with the life my parents condemned me to, but suddenly, I am not OK with it. Not OK with it at all.

I don’t want to have to go to therapy. I don’t want to blame my daddy issues for all my inadequacies in relationships. I don’t want to walk around a shell of a person because of my childhood. But the despicable display that occurred last night indicates that I may need a bit more help moving on from my past than I had hoped.

Ugh. Life.

The only good thing about this breakdown is I am writing again. And seeing as I am finding it difficult to drag myself away from the computer so that I can go to my yoga class, I suspect I may be sticking around this time.

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