This must be from November 2006. I was me, but a different version of myself. I was angry, disappointed, resentful. I lived in Manhattan and worked on a trading-floor of a foreign investment bank. My husband and I hated/loved/hated each other. We made quite a bit of money and paid far too much for rent. I did not feel safe at work or at home. I was lonely. I was not making art or music. I was not practicing yoga. I was sneaking out to ride my bike, to take walks, to get fresh air, to be with friends.
That month, I was hospitalized and diagnosed with a life-threatening, stress-related illness. I realized that the only way things were going to change for the better for me was if I walked away from everything that did not bring me happiness. I realized I had to change or die.
I wasn’t going to share the writing from another time in my life where I was not so happy, not so healthy. But, this is where I’ve been – and I am sifting through it – the past. I was attempting to write a story to heal from my life while I felt trapped in my circumstance at the same time. It was difficult to concentrate, I had intrusive thoughts. I thought if I just tried, something would happen. Some of the stories and fragments are reminders – the edges I have tested. Some themes still resurface, and some fade away.
Mostly I am very happy today – and – some recent events are causing me to consider a change of circumstance again. I could be making more room for my heart’s creative desires. That’s good. Some things aren’t working for me anymore. It’s good to acknowledge the issues and make a shift rather than wallow in shit.
“The only way to deal with an un-free world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.” — Albert Camus (1913-1960)
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I want to write about Halloween, magic things, crystal balls, real crystal balls, rattles, snake skins, squats—I can’t help it, I lived them. OD’ing in a hotel room, watching my face fade away in the mirror thinking, “I’m going to die here. I’m going to die and nobody is going to care.” I figured Luke would just leave the hotel without saying a word, let them find me dead. But he didn’t. He threw me in a cold shower and revived me.
Was I born with a heart murmur, or did I create it? Did the world create it?
Is my husband taking a shower or am I just hoping. I’ll bet he’s washing his hair and that is all. He doesn’t smell his own ass yet. Not time to take a shower.
Not sure how I feel about typing out my novel as opposed to writing it out by hand first. I guess it’s a start. Something different. I can write by hand, too.
Husband, did you just wash your hair? Are you teasing me? Why do you do that?
I want to write about my crazy lovely friend Annavie who moved back to South Africa. I miss her.
I want to write about another crazy friend who lives in a dome in Guatemala.
I want to write about a girl whose dream it is to drive across the country.
I don’t want to write about disappointment. I think that’s why I am so afraid to write. Or why I don’t write. I am so disappointed. I’d like to quit my job and not think about it ever again. Not think about any of those people.
I’d like to write about winning $25,000.00.
I’d like to write about my hometown—how scary fundamentalists thought I was the child of Satan.
I’d like to write about how much I love Neil Young.
I’d like to go to the West Coast and stay there. Someday I will. Someday I will. I wish S— had a bug for adventure like I do.
I want to write about something that I can have fun with and be proud of.