Even the Stars Sometimes Fade to Gray
I have been thinking about why I am so afraid of moving forward. I have been thinking about why I am procrastinating, often moving in reverse, the goals I tote all the time. The dreams I spend hours dreaming. The ideals I label future-self with, labels obtainable but so far away. I have wondered about what's stopping me; what am I so afraid of? In the past week, I have had serious downs; breaking down in front of new friends, fearing the need to say goodbye to old ones, my mother yelling at me when I've already been sent home sick. Everything's just been shit, and I am certain it's self-inflicted. I am certain that if I opened up and just let myself be happy, it wouldn't happen anymore. But, I know that things down miraculously change for the better. One day the tide doesn't just turn and everything is alright. And the people around me know that too, though some of them are clearly in denial. It takes time, it takes effort, it takes motivation. And even still you fall, even still you relapse and question and wonder and you think hard about taking a drink, or shooting up, or doing nothing but lie in bed and eat. It's going to happen no matter what you do. More than once, differently people have told me "you're going to fail. Just accept it, because it is going to happen." I have argued that sometimes you have to succeed. And that's true. And by failing and learning, usually you can. But if you never even try, you've never given yourself the chance. Now, I don't want to fail. Me? This one time I'd like to win. And people keep coming back at me with that line. All I can think is they don't believe I can win. And I am starting to think I agree. I realize I am going to fall down every once in a while, but I haven't accepted that I might actually stand strong.
My argument for putting it off has been this: I am searching for the things and the people who are going to make me strong, so that when relapse comes, I don't completely crumble. And yet I have still fallen, and I have still crumbled, and I have still not moved forward. There has to be more to it than my lack of support group--a group to which I am incessantly blind. I keep telling myself I am trying, but clearly I am doing very little of that. I am doing very little of anything.
Today, sick, as I have actually been, I laid in bed and read all day. Patricia Cornwell, murder mysteries; I know. Don't look so imperious, they are entertaining and don't require much thought. I am sure I read them for the same reasons other women divulge in romance. I also read them, because it reminds me of the things I want to do. Of course I realize life isn't like a novel, the characters never quite do what they are seemingly supposed to, plots never really work out the way they seemingly should, but nevertheless, the idea is along the same lines and I have a forum by which to imagine myself taking part in the game. And, as I was doing just that, all day long today with Body of Evidence, I thought about the life I wanted and realized something: if I get into the navy, if I become a Master of Arms; once I am out of boot camp and past A-School, I am a badge carrying, gun toting equivalent of a street cop. I could literally be there, doing that, in less than a year. My bother has do to more than that to actually become a cop, and I could do it in as little as a year. I could actually be somewhere close to who I've imagined being at thirty in a year's time. I could be literally a step closer, in school on my off-time, working fifty hours a week building life experience the FBI just loves. It's literally right in front of me, so close I could nearly grab it with the tips of my fingers. And yet, I stand still. I stand back, get fatter, get sadder, and let it slip away? What am I so afraid of?! Everything I have ever dreamed of is literally right in front of my fucking nose! What is holding me back?
I tried the move-away, grow-up, be-independent thing, and it went miserably wrong. I've tried it twice, and both times I hurried home to my mother's house, to Oklahoma, to a death sentence in my personal opinion. I've curled up in my mother's spare twin bed, curled up into my youth and clung on to the support of the familiar to comfort my bruised ego and battered self-esteem. I've hidden away from problems and ignored phone calls. I've just closed off. And all that time, I dreamed up in my mind all of the great things I would do, a few years from now. And the age I would be when I did them has increased with my own, as the belief that I could ever accomplish them slowly receded.
Somehow, I have found the easiest way to get what I want, somehow that was the conclusion I came to. For years before, with all of my running and all of my hiding, I would scheme little ideas to get what I wanted; little ideas that turned out to be complicated and difficult. I touted my favorite saying to tout, "Hard work is everything; without it nothing means anything." And I would plot my little plots, never playing a single one out. And, on my last straw, on my last leg, I came up with a new one. An obtainable one. One that will actually do it, and do it fast. All I had to do is lose weight, and I think I knew I could stop myself. But, I have found out it is harder to hide if I did. It's easy to lie about bills and debt and jobs and money. It's hard to lie about pounds and sizes and muscle mass. I have stopped myself, and everyone can see it, and I have nothing to blame because they know it would come off if I ran every day, they know the asthma would settle if I ran every day, they know I would moving forward if I ran everyday. I tell myself it's their knowing that stops me from doing things that I know are good for me. I hate how they know. And I hate how they look at me when I've done something they think I should. Especially if they've told me, and told me, and told me to do it. The look on their faces, it drives me nuts, I can't take it. I don't want to fucking do anything for them, so I don't do anything. I use this excuse, and I guess if that's the reason, I need to learn to not care. Fuck them, I should tell myself, I know better; I know who I did it for. I don't tell myself, that, however. And I continue to use that feeling as an excuse.
But it isn't an excuse, and it isn't the excuse. Never before in my life have a realize how close to success I actually was. I have always been able to talk myself out of it, always been able to stop myself from happiness, always been able to quit my dreams while still dreaming them. It's super fucked up, I know, but it is my cycle, and it's one I'm realizing is coming to an end.
Kirstie, a member of that group I can't seem to convince myself I have, may possibly be signing with a publisher. She's two years younger than me and I am sickeningly envious. But, what have I done to be where she is? Nothing. She writes, probably every day if she can help it. I talk myself out of writing because I don't "feel like it," even though I know if I would just sit down and do it, I'd "feel" better. I would, writing lifts my spirits. That's why I truly believe it's the only thing I was ever really meant to do, and I put it off like geometry homework. I realize, looking at Kirstie, that if I would do what she does, I probably would be closer to it than I am right now. But, publishing isn't the only thing I want to do anymore. I have thought about it, and just laying around writing all day isn't what is going to make me happy. Not that I can tell. I need movement, I need motivation, I need something everyday to keep me going, something to write about.
Yes, I could already be there, I am starting to get that. But if it isn't yet for me, than I can't quite argue with that.
What is yet for me, as I am quickly realizing, is to break my cycle and move fucking forward. I am not going to get away with putting it off anymore. I am not going to get away with excusing and blame. And I am not going to get away with rolling over and hiding. I don't want people to look at me with "I told you so"s, or worse, that look they get when I've done something good. But, I don't have to care about that. I don't have to listen to "thank yous" and I don't have to be bothered by looks I am probably imagining. I don't know what was done to me to make me feel this way, but it's stupid and childish. This is the time when absolutely nothing should be stopping me, when I am literally close enough to touch success. This should be the time I leap forward, not stand around and wait to be pushed. I'm tired of hiding, and I am tired of sleeping when I could change the world. I'm tired of closing the blinds.
But, I am afraid. Everything I have ever wanted is actually within reach. That has never happened before. I have always found a way of avoiding accomplishing my dreams, and suddenly I have no choice. I am not giving myself a choice, fate is not giving me a choice, no one is giving me a choice. And I am terrified. It's right there! Right fucking there! I could actually be doing it. I am terrified.
I could be an adult, and I am terrified. I have lied to myself my whole life about wanting that if I am so terrified about it today. I have lied to myself my whole life.
I guess that's why, more than ever, I need to do random, adventurous shit. I need to put myself out into the world. I need to write everyday and I need to do crazy things. I need to step out of bed, out of hiding, and just start forward. I need more than ever to do things I have never done. If I am so terrified of everything I have always told myself I am ready for, everything I have told myself I was working for; if I am so terrified that I can't let myself have them, then what is to come of me? Not good things, more not good things. So, now is the time to stand up and do something outlandish. And probably a good time to do something responsible.
And probably a good time to do something smart.
I don't know how much of any of this makes sense...I think that sentence got away from me a bit. What I know is this: I feel better than I did yesterday, I feel better than I did last week. I feel tired, and a little on the verge of tears. I feel like I needed to write it out and put it out there no matter its eloquence or its coherence. It isn't really for you, but I hope it worked anyway. I am going to go to bed, now. Tomorrow, I am going to finish my laundry, I am going to run, I am going to clean my room, and I am going to try to find another job. One that pays more, so that another Monday down the line, I can start paying off debts and saving for things outlandish and ridiculous but all the same cleansing and spiritual and awakening. No more being terrified, no more standing still. Just jumping.
Even the Stars Hideaway