Welcome to My Head.

I’m a real believer in writing as therapy. Thus, even though writing something for the blog is really the last thing on my mind right now, and even though I’d really like nothing more than to close the computer, go sit outside in the grass, close my eyes and hope to wake up in some foreign land, I’m going to deposit a few thoughts, incoherent as they are, in this space, and hope to make sense of something.

I feel like I’m living in a cloud.  Not on a cloud—that would be nice.  Rather, in the cloud, where it’s foggy, and confusing, and hard to breathe.  I think it’ll be worth it once I get out and am on top, however.  Sometimes you just have to struggle.

I have no energy.  Thinking about work and all of the assignments on my desk makes me want to collapse with exhaustion, and just fade into the carpet.

I’m afraid that things are on the fritz with J. For so long, I wanted and wanted (and wanted some more) to be with him always. Having friends get engaged would send me into a tailspin of waiting for OUR shiny, diamond-studded moment. These days, I wonder if he’s really what I want. Do I really want to be engaged to him? Does he fit the happy ideal of the couples around me? Is this, being married to an ex-lawyer and wanna-be music insider, a life I really want to sign up for? Really? All of the sudden I feel like I need way more time to prepare. Like that test that you felt so confident about, but you get there and open the bluebook, and holy sh!t I don’t know anything; how did I study all wrong?

I’ve never felt as homesick as I do right now. I’m starting to feel really guilty about moving so far away, now that I’ve essentially proved my point: yup, I’m self sufficient, I did it, look at meee! My family is so important to me, and I’ve only got this one life, and I’m starting to realize that I’m betting my most valuable chips on the gamble of always having more time. More time later to do the things you love, and see the people you need; buy now, pay later! Put in the hours now, and cash out later! All of this, of course, presupposes the existence of a glittering “later.” I feel like the older I get, the more foolish I am to bank on that illusion. My parents are young now—51 and 50, respectively—and I sometimes look at myself and say, stupid girl, get home and hang out with them and know them while you still can. I think I’m going to come back to this in 20 years where they’re all pent up in assisted living, and wonder what the hell I thought I was doing, running around being “independent” during the best years of their lives.

I wish we all lived in Ireland, where they have close families and it’s okay and expected to live nearby, and even if you move to the whole other side of the island, you could basically drive it in a day if you wanted. Some of their assisted living homes have pubs in them, too, which is TOTALLY the way to go. Totally.

I had my one-year review today, which was totally unexpected since, oh that’s right, I was hired in October. So, over the last year and eight months … As it happened, I’d forgotten (?) that I had a little fist-fight with upper management right before Christmas about a promotion I had been promised but had, at that point, still not been awarded. We came to an agreement (read: they listed to me and the grievance panel groupies I gathered) and promoted me retroactive to June 10. Had the effect of a marvelous Christmas bonus, plus apparently reset my hire date to June 10—aka last week—which kind of makes no sense to me, but whatever.

I’m doing just fine, they said. And the greatest part is, it doesn’t matter AT ALL as our company automatically gives you a nice raise ever year, with or without your manager’s approval. Very good, since I work for the Stingiest Man Alive. Also rather makes up for the fact that I still haven’t seen my stimulus check yet. I’m going to have to call those IRS commies at their little “if you don’t receive your check in six weeks…” number. The United States hates me. Probably doesn’t help that I first typed that as the “untied” states. Huh.

Now I’m going to hand over some of the fruits of that raise to the barrista man at Starbucks, lose myself in a book for an hour, and probably come back about the same, but eh, we’ll see. It’s all about progress, even if the steps are really small (or in this case, are wildly disjointed paragraphs). You get what you get.