The drank my way through evacuation lead up, during and after. I certainly felt numb, and coped by obsessing over sex and men. I acted out. I was juvenile. But after I was home and safe, I was ok.
It was a traumatic experience for sure, but I was ok, I think. I didn't cry, I wasn't depressed or angry. My obsession with sex and men eventually tapered off, as with my dependence on booze and cigarettes.
Still I can't help but wonder, was I ok? Really? For realz?
Sometimes I can't help but feel like I just woke up from a pleasant dream and it makes me sad that it's all merely a distant haze.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
I miss a lot, but really just one giant thing
Alright so I've been feeling pretty uninspired lately. There's no books that hold my attention, no stories hammering to be let out inside my brain, my past writings all sound childish, and this lack is really really taking a toll on my overall emotional health.
I don't think I ever realized how large a part literature and fiction plays in my identity. How much joy a well turned phrase, or passage gives me. I ache for the excitement of things on paper. I miss my friends who make me think about things, who spar verbally because it's fun, who appreciate a well written piece of fiction and want to dissect it and talk about its merits and failures in large and minute detail.
I miss the need/desire to go to a full coffee shop and take in all the other people and wonder who they are, what they're working on, and where they come from. I miss my old enclave in the French House - that large table, the french doors, all those windows, the quiet view of a nice street with beautiful houses framed by green trees and grass on a rainy day.
I miss the drama of someone else's problems. sword fights, epic loves, teenage angst, adult angst, and indecision. Where did it go and how do I get it back?
I don't think I ever realized how large a part literature and fiction plays in my identity. How much joy a well turned phrase, or passage gives me. I ache for the excitement of things on paper. I miss my friends who make me think about things, who spar verbally because it's fun, who appreciate a well written piece of fiction and want to dissect it and talk about its merits and failures in large and minute detail.
I miss the need/desire to go to a full coffee shop and take in all the other people and wonder who they are, what they're working on, and where they come from. I miss my old enclave in the French House - that large table, the french doors, all those windows, the quiet view of a nice street with beautiful houses framed by green trees and grass on a rainy day.
I miss the drama of someone else's problems. sword fights, epic loves, teenage angst, adult angst, and indecision. Where did it go and how do I get it back?
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
That Knot in Your Chest You Just Can't Untangle
Strings that have wound themselves into a ball under my sternum and is pressing uncomfortably:
- My parents are coming to visit
- The future
- My un-date-ablity despite being pretty freakin' awesome.
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