ON THE DUALITY — Of Human Nature.

Reflection from May 7th, 2013 @ Age 31


I have to go pick Dietrich up soon from doggy daycare (yes…)—but I’m very proud of myself for having made, in the past four days, so much writing time.  It makes me happy.  Nothing, I think, makes me happier in fact.  I don’t know if that’s sad or happy or what, but in any case…it makes me feel good.

I’m sitting back out on my mom’s front porch, typing on my computer.  The last time I can remember being in this position, sitting in this particular chair, typing on my old laptop—I was getting high and hadn’t passed the bar exam and hadn’t been in a grown up relationship yet (although, I don’t know if I’d call…ahh nevermind), etc.  And so yes, back I am, living at my parents—typing on my laptop, out on the front porch.  Here I am in the same exact spot, physically—so then, isn’t it so funny how mentally I so very much am just the opposite!  I couldn’t be more night and day, with the sole exception of my morals and values—except that then, they were wavering, and now they are steadfast.

Which, if you look at it from that light in particular, brings a very positive spin up over the fact that I am back living with my parents.  And we’ll see what I get from the divorce if anything—but there is even a very real chance I might soon be sitting with a fat chunk o’ change in my back pocket.  Thanks to my good ol’ soon-to-be-ex-husband.  And now I know evil.  Bahhhahahah!

No, in all seriousness, I keep looking for an ending to my book.  My first book.  There will only ever be one first.  Beauty is mine.  Once she has been written, she will go out into this world all alone—I will be with her at times, but into minds she will go and she will be there all on her own.  And she will then have to contend with the fight against evil that is out there; but ahh all the minds to influence and while thinking I digress.

My most worst and absolutely awful therapist once told me, the most helpful piece of therapeutic advice I’ve ever received.  She told me, “Marissa, everything has a beginning, a middle and an end.”  So, sometimes the beginning is long and the interim short, and then it’s over before you know it like a rollercoaster.  Or, sometimes the beginning is quick and the middle is long and the ending is long too, like a lifelong love lost to the fight of cancer.  In any case, whichever way they may come—everything always has a beginning, middle and end.  I think I’d do well to remember that more often; not sure though, why it even popped up into my mind as of late.  Hmm…

I’ve been toying with the idea of essay writing.  I think my writing in many different circumstances would benefit from an essay structure, so I think maybe I’ll learn just in particular what that is and then give it a shot.  Maybe that’s what I’ll do for my next writers’ group.

I can’t tell you how much money I’ve spent over the past month.  I really can’t.  Thousands on clothes and makeup and shoes.  Well, mostly just clothes and just a little on makeup, but it’s NARS (my fav) and so it’s really quite expensive in any case.  Well, it also is because the clothes are either from Anthropologie or if from TJ Maxx, always the runway section, which negates the cheapness of the “maxonista” otherwise.

That’s it.  I just wanted to let you know.  Somebody’s about to mow the lawn across the street.  It’s so funny here, how all the little kids I used to watch driving in their red corvette kids cars across the cal-de-sac or hear playing hide-and-seek from outside my window—they’re all so much older now.  And, so am I.  There’s something there, I still cannot grasp it—something about time and space and what’s in between, but I cannot yet grasp it still.  Still glimpses, but it never catches.  So ethereal is this wisp of a dream of mine.  Still it is, but not always will it be.  A beginning, middle and end—everything does have surely.

I can’t even tell you how bizarre it is to be sitting here in this same spot.  I used to come out here and smoke bowls by myself late late at night, I was so depressed.  I called my new psychiatrist’s office today in fact, because I have been feeling rather depressed as of late—since last week, when he doubled my Aplenzin dosage.  I’ve been feeling depressed and having nightmares about Adam cheating on me.  I know, I hate to admit it—but whatever, I suppose.  In any case, I notice it now; I can read the winds as they come—I can tell you what state I am in and what I need to do to cope.  I can tell you all of that now.  I may not actually be able to do all the coping effectively as of yet—but all the aforementioned information I can tell you plain as day, in the sunlight and all.  So, I guess that’s one difference between the me sitting here now, and the me who used to sit here so helplessly.  So hopelessly.  So how did that change?  How did I become stronger?  I don’t know, I think this is all a very ethereal conversation I’m entertaining in my head.  But I’m pretty sure the secret is in here, somewhere, it is in this very journal entry, the ending to my book.

Once it is over—it will be done.  Once the chapter is final, the story is over, the book will be done.  I have not yet written that final chapter.  But I will know when I have, and it will be bittersweet. 

There is and will only ever be one that is first.  One love, one loss, one life, one book.

Alright, time for personal training and to pick up D.  I hate to break the ending like this, but I think it’s important to show that even in one moment, I am two things.  In all moments, I seem to be two things—different and yet, one and the same.


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