I am all over the place today. I’m moody. I slept really late. I have sneezed no fewer than 1,500 times. Having allergies is like living in a constant elevated state of frustration. I just want to scream and go to bed and wake up in a month or so. To add to this, my cat, who I love and am also dangerously allergic to, has taken to napping on the windowsill where I work. You would not believe the cat wigs that float off of her. My lampshade is covered in Pearl fur. I digress because she is excellent company.
I have done the bare minimum for work over the past two days. This is partially because I put in a ton of work last week, so I can float a little bit. It’s also because my mental capacity needs a break I’ve been ramming into a wall over the past week. The guilt attached to not giving 100% to work, parenting, teaching, keeping my house together, art has been climbing. My brain knows it is impossible, but the perfectionist in me is still like “why can’t you fucking just do this?” or “why are you being lazy about this?”
I’ve been doing a lot of spiritual work and naval gazing during this lockdown and man, I am my own worst enemy. I am not looking for people or situations to blame from my childhood. I don’t care where it came from. I just need to fix it. (Even here, I’m trying to be a hero.) In any case, I’m trying to just be fucking nicer to myself. I’m not that bad.
Over the years, little mental wars about my physical appearance, my business accomplishments, my creative talent, my intelligence – have broken me way down. The upside of this is that I think I’m ready to rebuild.
I’m never going to be 120 lbs again. Hooray. I’m sick of fucking caring. I like potato chips. My belly wiggles. Not into it? Your call.
I’m sick of “sexy”. The whole fucking concept is bullshit. It’s objective AND subjective and fully based on whether the collective “men” want to fuck you. If you’re sexy, you move a dude’s dick. Gross. I hereby dismiss this as a basis of value in any universe. “But sexy is can be your mind or you energy.” Cool. But it’s still measured in YOUR genital response. None of my business. NEXT.
My hair is streaked with grey. I think it looks cool.
I will never be the up and coming artist to watch in music. That shit simply doesn’t happen to women over 40. It’s not going to stop me. But I’m also not going to give as much of a shit. I’m being choosier with what I invest my time in. I can’t do all of the things. I don’t WANT to do all of the things. I think I tried to be involved in everything in order to stay relevant. At this point, I either am or I am not. The opinions and whims of other people are beyond my control. I’m gonna keep doing me in either case. Time>Money. Naps>Exposure.
I came back from 2 nervous breakdowns and bankruptcy in my twenties with near perfect credit and pretty fucking solid mental health in my forties. Also I don’t drink anymore which probably has a lot to do with everything said in the previous sentence. Either way, mission accomplished.
All of this is not to say I’m this immensely evolved superwoman. I still have hangups.
I’m not cool with my face looking older.
I’m still battling whether or not I should go through with grad school or follow my passions with art, spirituality, and mental health. I literally do not know what my opinion on this is.
I’m still figuring out my voice and my authentic feelings and thoughts on a lot of things. I’ve developed a callus over my true desires over years of stuffing them down just to power through. Much of my life reflects the direction I have taken from others. And what I’ve learned (spoiler alert) is that you CANNOT please EVERYONE ALL of the time. That was my actual goal. Seriously. I mean, it’s nearly impossible to please EVERYONE even SOME of the time… unless you’re air. I am not air. Or potato chips.
My Peregrination 