11/21/2013 STATE UPDATE: Well, now that I am unemployed, besides looking for a new job and watching my state legislature take my civil rights away merely for having a mental illness, I think I’ll take the free time I do now have on my hands, and finish up writing my book, Cultivating Beauty. I don’t know that anyone will read it, but I know I’ll feel good when I have a finished project to hold in these two hands of its creation.
So that’s going to be my focus from now on, because that’s what will keep me going through right now to get to later. I’ll keep up with the legislative stuff and of course, work on finding a good job fit — I question whether anyone will hire me now that I’ve come out with being bipolar and all, but that’s just what I mean… All worries aside, it’s time to cultivate some serious beauty over here. It’s time to find my happy ending…
REFLECTION FROM APRIL 6TH, 2008
WRITTEN @ AGE 26
Well, it’s April of 2008. I’m that much older now, but I don’t necessarily feel like it. I don’t know that aging is about feeling older, especially the kind of aging I’m doing at the present moment. It’s mostly feeling the same, but having to deal with more and more sh-t, more work, more responsibility, more stress and less fun.
I realize my vision is slightly skewed because most adults I know, my age, are making a lot more money than I am, and can afford some luxury in their lives to balance out all the rest of the bullsh-t. Clothes, manicures, pedicures, vacations, fine dining, going out to, you know, see cool shit and all that. I don’t have any of that. I have the stress, all the work, all the responsibility, but none of the benefits that, in large part, make the rest tolerable. No significant other, no ring on my finger, no wedding, no babies.
I have my writing and a boring job with nice people in a nice office. I have pain and misery and a broken heart. I have an amazing family and amazing friends who would do anything they could do to help me out; I am loved. I am smart and I am healthy and I am beautiful. I have a future full of “promise” but it can’t fix my aching heart. I have the ability to precisely and impeccably express my emotions, but I cannot seem to heal this shattered heart. I am lonely and as much good as I have in my life is not enough to sustain any sort of lasting complacency. I write into places of my heart that bleed and tears bleed from my eyes and I can get there, but I cannot heal it.