17:32 - Wednesday, Jan. 05, 2005 no lightbulbs
It feels awkward, always, to try and write after a period of no lightbulbs, no wrenching observations or epiphanies at the bus station or strangers coming up and offering offbeat little pieces of wisdom that I simply must post�
Actually, that�s a fairly accurate description of the year 2004.
I�ve swung my high-intensity green reading lamps to the opposite extreme... up until this year I always had the sneaking suspicion I was lagging behind in life, trying too hard to do the things that everyone else had already done and was jaded about. I felt like, when I was discovering things, I was jumping on, joining in, to things others were just leaving, like the Metro, and alternative music in general in high school, which was definitely on its way out (and for good reason). I guess what I'm trying to say is that I've stopped trying, and/or joining, and/or lagging. I did what I've always wanted to: stopped being the eager faced buck toothed blond who was always a little awkward/naive and tended to tag along excessively.
Instead, I lived this year like I was already 30 or 40 years old, married, working, stressing. Cooking. Things like that. Things like going to sleep at 10 on Friday nights with a feeling of relief, and of exhaustion. Sharing my bed; feeling cold and lonely when I wasn't sharing my bed. Overall, sharing probably over 80% of my life with another person, forgetting what it was like to be alone, thinking I was over my anxiety problems but really, only being distracted from them, and the times when I was alone, at work, at night, in a car in the northeast corner of Boulder in the parking lot of a deserted auto parts store, awaiting instructions, getting none, pushing the battery button on the two-way radio every 30 seconds to make sure it was still working and if, for some reason, I were to stop breathing or get appendicitis all of a sudden or have a heart attack or an aneurysm, I would be able to radio for help.
I have experienced forgetting how to write. In all my years of panic attacks and rolling around on the floor with scissors and curling in balls at 2 a.m. with the lights on, of being unable to attend school or concerts or go to restaurants or eat in front of people, all this hellish high school drama, all of that, I never stopped writing, or remembering how to get my feelings down in a coherent, complete-sentences kind of way. Which, as you can see, I have sort of lost.
There are a few reasons for this that I can think of. Two, actually. One is that, in high school, despite the fact that every day I thought was the end of the world, or I at least hoped it would be so I wouldn't have to do whatever terrifying thing my life required of me, such as playing trumpet solos or facing the guy I'd basically told had a nice ass to his face, I still at least had a sense of excitement. More lows than highs for sure, but if you look back to then, to the virtual pages of my virtual thoughts, there are a whole lot of, you know, exclamation points, and capital letters, and 'I wish..' this and 'I need..' that.
I don't wish for or need anything anymore, really. I had a 20 item long Christmas list that I had to deliberate over for days, and even then I was forcing it. I have a gorgeous wonderful boyfriend who couldn't be more perfect for me if he tried, and he does. I don't have enough free time during school semesters to be bored, because of my job and my upper-division credit load. Maybe if I had time to be bored I'd still be writing music or fiction. But I'm not bored, and I don't wish for amazing writing talent like I used to, because even if I had it it would be wasted while I spent my nights driving drunk college students to the Reef for 2 dollar you-call-its on Tuesdays. I'm not really poor like I was sophomore year, so I don't have to worry about food, even though sometimes I do anyway. I don't live with anyone who drags me to parties or concerts when I'm more tempted just to sleep. I don't write because I have nothing to write about. I am not depressed, or anxious, at least not very often, but I am just this: blah. Kind of blah. I should do a spoof jazz album. Kind of blah. All vocals, like I meant to, remember?
That was two reasons, but it got muddled. They're in there somewhere. The thing I kept telling myself to write about these past two weeks is more just for myself. It's so the next time I think I'm dying I will remember that every year I think I'm dying, when all of a sudden after days of school and work and parties and having my days and nights completey filled, I find myself at home in my living room with insomnia from having slept too much, sick of reading, unable to concentrate, with a wide open space in my brain that welcomes the rush of anxiety and paranoia like an old friend, and all of a sudden I have appendix-aches and dizzy spells and chest pains WHICH ALL SPELL CERTAIN DEATH.
For the record, for the future me who comes frantically searching her diary for proof that this always happens, I went to the doctor, and the doctor said that everything was perfect, and the only thing that happened is I passed out when my blood was taken from low blood pressure, and his prescription for me was: eat more, and drink more water.
