Baggage can go fuck itself.
Finally, I have my own laptop. I've been traveling with just my work laptop and my phone, and it's a pain in the ass to type on my phone. Not conducive to long blog posts.
Of course, I don't know that I'd have been writing, regardless of my implements. I keep coming up with these entries, with things I want to write down and remember. And I keep neglecting to do so. I think a part of it is the fact that opportunity is knocking, and expecting me to answer the door. I'm sitting, curled up in my bed, sucking my thumb and ignoring the knocking. My sister asked me if it was because I was afraid of rejection, and I told her I thought it was more a fear of disappointing. She pointed out that the two are rather directly related. What happens when you disappoint people? They reject you.
I neglected to point out the cause of that fear to her, nicely highlighted quite recently by the kerfuffle created when some of my family were told about an angry facebook post I made, expressing fury and disgust at her religion. So far my mom is the only one to confront me about it. But it took my sister an awful long time to call me back, and I know she was either told about it or shown it, via her friend Paula.
What a silly sounding drama fest. But it's not silly, the repercussions of me expressing that anger. They could easily see it as a reason not to talk to me anymore.
Yeah. Fear of disappointing, fear of rejection, fear of being honest... I wonder where this shit comes from?
So. I am in Arizona again. Tucson, to be exact. Actually, some town just outside of Tucson, in the Catalina Foothills.
It's spectacularly beautiful. There is a big, gorgeous pool in the backyard of this house, which sits up a little ways, surrounded by other houses but incredibly private. There are a million birds, quail and doves galore, and a bunch of quirky little lizards that come out and keep me company in the cool morning.
There are no pets here, and the people who own the home are awesome and laid back and sweet. It's pretty much the perfect situation.
And yet, I find myself with the exact same baggage I've been carrying around for I don't know how long. Situation and context is not changing this shit. Now, theoretically, I've known that all along. Of course I've known that! Who doesn't know that you carry your own baggage around with you wherever you go? Everyone knows that!
But knowing and KNOWING, being aware and being forced to acknowledge, are two very different things.
My sister asked me if getting rid of all of my belongings when I left Portland felt freeing. I didn't even pause when I said no. I didn't feel free without those things. I'd never felt tied to them, they were easy to give up. What giving them up did to me, though, was strip away any easy veils I had accessible to hide my own shit. With nothing holding me down, it became extremely obvious that I was the only thing holding me down. Am STILL the only thing holding me down.
I was driving home from the grocery store tonight, after having bought $60 worth of extremely healthy, hedonistic food, and my hand was trailing out the window of my Jeep. The weather is perfect, the sun is set, the fingernail moon is scraping a delicate scratch in the blue black sky, and I am... nervous. Discontent. Fearful. Numb. Anything but happy. Sometimes I'm happy. When everything is new, I'm so happy. The first couple of nights in a new house, the process of traveling to get there... I'm incredibly happy during those times. But give me a few days, up to a week, and I'm back to jumping at shadows. I'm back to being too hard on myself, yet not hard enough. I'm back to the situation I'm in never being the situation I want to be in.
Fuck this discontent bullshit. AAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Oh, how I fucking hate it. Infuriating, ridiculous, spoiled rotten bullshit.
Of course, I don't know that I'd have been writing, regardless of my implements. I keep coming up with these entries, with things I want to write down and remember. And I keep neglecting to do so. I think a part of it is the fact that opportunity is knocking, and expecting me to answer the door. I'm sitting, curled up in my bed, sucking my thumb and ignoring the knocking. My sister asked me if it was because I was afraid of rejection, and I told her I thought it was more a fear of disappointing. She pointed out that the two are rather directly related. What happens when you disappoint people? They reject you.
I neglected to point out the cause of that fear to her, nicely highlighted quite recently by the kerfuffle created when some of my family were told about an angry facebook post I made, expressing fury and disgust at her religion. So far my mom is the only one to confront me about it. But it took my sister an awful long time to call me back, and I know she was either told about it or shown it, via her friend Paula.
What a silly sounding drama fest. But it's not silly, the repercussions of me expressing that anger. They could easily see it as a reason not to talk to me anymore.
Yeah. Fear of disappointing, fear of rejection, fear of being honest... I wonder where this shit comes from?
So. I am in Arizona again. Tucson, to be exact. Actually, some town just outside of Tucson, in the Catalina Foothills.
It's spectacularly beautiful. There is a big, gorgeous pool in the backyard of this house, which sits up a little ways, surrounded by other houses but incredibly private. There are a million birds, quail and doves galore, and a bunch of quirky little lizards that come out and keep me company in the cool morning.
There are no pets here, and the people who own the home are awesome and laid back and sweet. It's pretty much the perfect situation.
And yet, I find myself with the exact same baggage I've been carrying around for I don't know how long. Situation and context is not changing this shit. Now, theoretically, I've known that all along. Of course I've known that! Who doesn't know that you carry your own baggage around with you wherever you go? Everyone knows that!
But knowing and KNOWING, being aware and being forced to acknowledge, are two very different things.
My sister asked me if getting rid of all of my belongings when I left Portland felt freeing. I didn't even pause when I said no. I didn't feel free without those things. I'd never felt tied to them, they were easy to give up. What giving them up did to me, though, was strip away any easy veils I had accessible to hide my own shit. With nothing holding me down, it became extremely obvious that I was the only thing holding me down. Am STILL the only thing holding me down.
I was driving home from the grocery store tonight, after having bought $60 worth of extremely healthy, hedonistic food, and my hand was trailing out the window of my Jeep. The weather is perfect, the sun is set, the fingernail moon is scraping a delicate scratch in the blue black sky, and I am... nervous. Discontent. Fearful. Numb. Anything but happy. Sometimes I'm happy. When everything is new, I'm so happy. The first couple of nights in a new house, the process of traveling to get there... I'm incredibly happy during those times. But give me a few days, up to a week, and I'm back to jumping at shadows. I'm back to being too hard on myself, yet not hard enough. I'm back to the situation I'm in never being the situation I want to be in.
Fuck this discontent bullshit. AAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Oh, how I fucking hate it. Infuriating, ridiculous, spoiled rotten bullshit.
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