So, I've already failed at my once a week promise. It's been nearly two since I wrote the last post. I've been busy as hell, though. Since I wrote the last post, I started a new, third job. I've had exactly one day off since then, and for that one, I had to have someone cover my shift just so I could get some sleep. I'm busy, and I'm tired, and I'm getting more and more frustrated as the days go on.
I hate being that person who always thinks their boss is out to get them, but yeah...I think my boss is out to get me. And it's the boss that matters. It's the boss at the job that pays the most. The job that's the "pay check" and not the job where I'm doing what I love. Lately, I feel like I can't do or say anything right. It's causing me to overthink everything I do, which results in me screwing up even more. I'm frustrated. And yeah, sad. I don't like being bad at my job. I don't like knowing that no matter what I do, and what I change, it's still not right. It's not what they're looking for. It's not how it's supposed to be. It does nothing for my self esteem and my self worth.
I had been feeling really depressed for a few weeks. I couldn't figure out what it was. I assumed my meds had stopped working, or it was because the weather was crappy and cold for too long this year. And then I worked a shift at the bookstore (a job I got because I wanted it, not because I needed it). Lately, I've been getting very few hours. Sometimes, only five or six a week, which does nothing to supplement my part-time income. It's what led me to seek out the third job. Anyway, after a few weeks of only working there once a week, I finally figured out that that's what was depressing me. Not being able to do that job. Not being able to get my hands on books, and to help people find the perfect one. Not getting to socialize with people who I have things in common with. Not being able to do what I love. It's the first time in my entire life that I have a job that I truly love. But, it doesn't pay me enough to do it full-time, which kills me.
The third job I got is at a library. So far, after one week, it's...not what I expected. The first day was very boring. When I told Ben that, his reaction was, "of course it's boring, it's a library. What did you expect?" Point taken, I guess. The second and third days were a little bit more active. I like it. I'm learning quickly, and again, I enjoy spending my days with people who have the same interests as I do. And I've already been told by a co-worker that I'm "smart," because I knew that the title of a book a customer was asking for was called something different. Because I know my field. And I'm damn good at it. And I'm good at it, because I love it.
That being said, I'm not sure the library job is going to last. The first tip-off was the children's story times that take place just about every day. We do story times at the bookstore, but they're not nearly as involved. There, we read a book (or two) and usually do a crafting activity and then we're done. In the three days I worked at the library, I observed three different story times, with three different people hosting them. During all three, I sat there thinking, "I can't do that." And I'm probably going to have to, because one of those people is leaving, which is who I was hired to replace. There's singing, and there's dancing, and there's toys and games, and the whole nine yards. I love kids. Adore them. But, that's not me. I'm not that person. I can't perform like that in front of that many people (on Friday, there were probably about 30, including parents). The second sign was when a particular patron came into the library. She walked in and I saw my co-workers glance at each other. A few seconds later, I was called into the back room. I was informed that this particular patron was schizophrenic. When she's on her meds, she's fine. When she's not, she can be "disruptive." They then proceeded to tell me that she can get in your face sometimes, and she's "very strong," so "don't be afraid to call the cops when you're here alone." Hold the phone. I'm going to be here alone? Is that legal? Why wasn't that mentioned in the interview? And what?! No no. I do not like this.
Look, I don't know what I'm doing. I have no idea. I'm just some kid with a dream. Except that I'm not anymore. A kid, that is. When I was 22 and fresh out of college, this whole chasing my dreams bit was cute, and fun. I enjoyed defying the odds, and telling people to "shove it" when they told me I wasn't good enough. I enjoyed proving myself and letting everyone know that I was going to find that dream job. No one could tell me otherwise. At 30, it's just sad. And exhausting. And frustrating. And infuriating. I feel old. I feel like those 22-year-olds are the ones getting the jobs I want now. Those kids with that same determination I had are the ones getting the jobs I should have gotten had I not stupidly chosen to get married and give it all up instead. It feels like it's too late. I just want one job. I just want to be comfortable, and I want some structure, and I want a job that doesn't make me want to blow my brains out every morning. I'm certain I'm not alone. I know that this generation has it hard. For us, that is too much to ask. Most of us can't do it alone. So many people my age (and older) are still living at home, because they can't afford not to. And I know that my chosen field doesn't pay a lot. It's not about the money. It never was for me. If it was, I'd have a nice cushy job at an insurance company, since they loved me there in college (I also told them I had no intention of staying there, because I had bigger dreams). I've said this before, and I'll say it again, even though it offended someone last time: I envy those who are happy with a paycheck. I envy those people who don't really have a big dream they're chasing. The ones who are just happy having a job that pays the bills. Not even happy - just content. Just "good enough." I want that. But, I know that I won't get that unless I'm working in the field I spent so much time and money studying. At what point do I decide that's not gonna happen, and just settle for the paycheck, so I can settle down and have a family? Because, I know I'll regret not having a family more than I'll regret not having that job.
Why can't the jobs I love pay me enough to survive? And how come the jobs that pay me (barely) enough make me miserable and depressed? Is this simply the reality of the world, or is it me?
Wednesday, April 20, 2016
Friday, April 8, 2016
Kim and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day
Today sucked on toast. It sucked so badly that the one glimmer of good news was actually bad news.
Last night, Ben and I got in a stupid petty fight. I can't even explain what it was about, but I told him he was "the most annoying person I've ever lived with." So, yeah...I guess I deserved him not talking to me today. But, I did honestly think we'd sleep on it and be over it by this morning. He clearly had other plans. He didn't even say bye to me this morning when he left for work. :(
So, that had me in a funk all day. I told myself I wasn't going to let it bother me, and I was too old to still be crying over boys. I knew it would pass and by the time we both got home from work tonight, and we had a chance to talk about it, we'd be fine. The day got worse, though. I had a meeting with my boss at 11:30. This is something that happens every three weeks, to stay updated on my status, and touch base with each other. In a nutshell, I've been messing up. After nine months, I'm still getting looooong emails back from the editors telling me what I did wrong. One particular email this week was from my boss, and was followed up with a paragraph basically telling me that I can't still be making these mistakes. I didn't even respond to the email, because I didn't know what to say. I tend to attack when I feel threatened (as witnessed above in yesterday's fight with Ben). I figured it was safer not to answer. She called me out on it in our meeting. She wanted to know why I didn't answer. I told her the email bummed me out. I told her it made me feel singled out. I told her it made me feel like, even though I know these are mistakes that everyone on my teams is making, that I was the only one being reprimanded for it. In a nutshell, I'm pissed off. And I'm worried about my job. My boss is wonderful. She's responsive, and she's honest, and she always leaves the doors of communication open. But, that doesn't make me feel any better about sucking at my job.
I spent that entire meeting trying not to cry, which I do when I feel frustrated, or scared, or angry. I got back to my desk and messaged Ben, because I can't just leave shit alone. I told him next time he decided not to talk to me the day after a fight, he needs to sleep on the couch. I told him not to come with me tonight for the plans we'd made the night before, because I didn't need his "immaturity" and "pettiness." I told him again that he was annoying and that even the most patient person in the world would find living with him to be annoying. I'm a really nice girlfriend.
I left work feeling like complete garbage. But, still I told myself I wasn't going to cry. I was better than this. I deserved better than this. Better than this job. Better than this man. Better than all of it. It wasn't worth crying over, because it was up to me to fix it, and I was going to. So, I didn't cry.
I got home and checked the mail. There was a large envelope in there from a lawyer. I'm being sued for over $4,000 from my previous landlord. This has been an ongoing battle for nearly a year and I was in the final stretch, about to get the case thrown out, because they had never responded to my appeal. I sent them a ten-day notice. This time, they responded. And added their lawyer fees on top of the original amount. And made it known that if I continue to fight this, I will be charged $250 for every hour the lawyer spends on it. There was no point in even convincing myself I wouldn't cry anymore. I was done. Completely lost it. And in the midst of the biggest meltdown I've had in a few years, I got a phone call from an interview I had yesterday offering me the job. Another part-time one. A library assistant. I couldn't even be excited about it, because now it wasn't a job I applied for because I wanted to work in a library, it was a job I was going to need to pay for this damn legal battle. I called the woman back after my hysterics calmed down. We laid out my training schedule. Tomorrow is my only day off for the next ten days. I'm too exhausted to be exhausted.
I almost bailed on the plans I had tonight, because I just felt awful. But, I knew that the only thing worse than how I was feeling was letting myself stew in my own emotions by staying home crying all night. So, I went. And I had a really good time. I'm glad I went. I rarely get invited out with friends, because I'm also pretty good at pushing them away, so it was nice to be invited and to distract myself. They had seen my Facebook statuses saying how awful the day was and asked if I wanted to talk about it. I didn't. It was too much (this is a very watered-down version). I did eventually text Ben and tell him how I was feeling. I told him this was the worst I'd felt since the height of my depression two years ago. I told him I was sorry I made him feel bad the night before (understatement). I asked him if there was any chance he could not still be mad at me when we both got home, because I really, really needed him. He responded by telling me how much he loved me, and that if he didn't love me, the things I said wouldn't have hurt so much. He told me he would not be mad, but that didn't mean he wouldn't still be hurt. He said he'd give me a big hug when he came home. I hadn't even been able to tell him anything about the rest of my day. He was the one I needed. If I hadn't been fighting with him today, everything else would have been bearable.
Today was a bad day. I hate days like this. It's been a long time since I felt this low. I still have my days when I feel sorry for myself, but days like today are few and far between. Days when I completely give up, and tell myself that it's not worth it anymore...those are rare. Tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow I can celebrate the good news about my newest job. Tomorrow, Ben and I can spend some quality time together and try to put this ugly fight behind us. Tomorrow, I'll enjoy my only day off in the next ten days. Tomorrow will be better. It has to be.
Last night, Ben and I got in a stupid petty fight. I can't even explain what it was about, but I told him he was "the most annoying person I've ever lived with." So, yeah...I guess I deserved him not talking to me today. But, I did honestly think we'd sleep on it and be over it by this morning. He clearly had other plans. He didn't even say bye to me this morning when he left for work. :(
So, that had me in a funk all day. I told myself I wasn't going to let it bother me, and I was too old to still be crying over boys. I knew it would pass and by the time we both got home from work tonight, and we had a chance to talk about it, we'd be fine. The day got worse, though. I had a meeting with my boss at 11:30. This is something that happens every three weeks, to stay updated on my status, and touch base with each other. In a nutshell, I've been messing up. After nine months, I'm still getting looooong emails back from the editors telling me what I did wrong. One particular email this week was from my boss, and was followed up with a paragraph basically telling me that I can't still be making these mistakes. I didn't even respond to the email, because I didn't know what to say. I tend to attack when I feel threatened (as witnessed above in yesterday's fight with Ben). I figured it was safer not to answer. She called me out on it in our meeting. She wanted to know why I didn't answer. I told her the email bummed me out. I told her it made me feel singled out. I told her it made me feel like, even though I know these are mistakes that everyone on my teams is making, that I was the only one being reprimanded for it. In a nutshell, I'm pissed off. And I'm worried about my job. My boss is wonderful. She's responsive, and she's honest, and she always leaves the doors of communication open. But, that doesn't make me feel any better about sucking at my job.
I spent that entire meeting trying not to cry, which I do when I feel frustrated, or scared, or angry. I got back to my desk and messaged Ben, because I can't just leave shit alone. I told him next time he decided not to talk to me the day after a fight, he needs to sleep on the couch. I told him not to come with me tonight for the plans we'd made the night before, because I didn't need his "immaturity" and "pettiness." I told him again that he was annoying and that even the most patient person in the world would find living with him to be annoying. I'm a really nice girlfriend.
I left work feeling like complete garbage. But, still I told myself I wasn't going to cry. I was better than this. I deserved better than this. Better than this job. Better than this man. Better than all of it. It wasn't worth crying over, because it was up to me to fix it, and I was going to. So, I didn't cry.
I got home and checked the mail. There was a large envelope in there from a lawyer. I'm being sued for over $4,000 from my previous landlord. This has been an ongoing battle for nearly a year and I was in the final stretch, about to get the case thrown out, because they had never responded to my appeal. I sent them a ten-day notice. This time, they responded. And added their lawyer fees on top of the original amount. And made it known that if I continue to fight this, I will be charged $250 for every hour the lawyer spends on it. There was no point in even convincing myself I wouldn't cry anymore. I was done. Completely lost it. And in the midst of the biggest meltdown I've had in a few years, I got a phone call from an interview I had yesterday offering me the job. Another part-time one. A library assistant. I couldn't even be excited about it, because now it wasn't a job I applied for because I wanted to work in a library, it was a job I was going to need to pay for this damn legal battle. I called the woman back after my hysterics calmed down. We laid out my training schedule. Tomorrow is my only day off for the next ten days. I'm too exhausted to be exhausted.
I almost bailed on the plans I had tonight, because I just felt awful. But, I knew that the only thing worse than how I was feeling was letting myself stew in my own emotions by staying home crying all night. So, I went. And I had a really good time. I'm glad I went. I rarely get invited out with friends, because I'm also pretty good at pushing them away, so it was nice to be invited and to distract myself. They had seen my Facebook statuses saying how awful the day was and asked if I wanted to talk about it. I didn't. It was too much (this is a very watered-down version). I did eventually text Ben and tell him how I was feeling. I told him this was the worst I'd felt since the height of my depression two years ago. I told him I was sorry I made him feel bad the night before (understatement). I asked him if there was any chance he could not still be mad at me when we both got home, because I really, really needed him. He responded by telling me how much he loved me, and that if he didn't love me, the things I said wouldn't have hurt so much. He told me he would not be mad, but that didn't mean he wouldn't still be hurt. He said he'd give me a big hug when he came home. I hadn't even been able to tell him anything about the rest of my day. He was the one I needed. If I hadn't been fighting with him today, everything else would have been bearable.
Today was a bad day. I hate days like this. It's been a long time since I felt this low. I still have my days when I feel sorry for myself, but days like today are few and far between. Days when I completely give up, and tell myself that it's not worth it anymore...those are rare. Tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow I can celebrate the good news about my newest job. Tomorrow, Ben and I can spend some quality time together and try to put this ugly fight behind us. Tomorrow, I'll enjoy my only day off in the next ten days. Tomorrow will be better. It has to be.
Tuesday, April 5, 2016
Voices from the Future
I made the (purposeful) mistake of telling Sophie that I made a goal to write once a week. She's making me stick to it. So, her assignment for this week was to write a letter to myself to be opened on April 1, 2003, two months before my high school graduation. Yes, we're believing in time travel for this one. I've sat on this assignment for about a week now, thinking about what to say, trying to remember where I was in my life at that time. So, here goes.
Dear Kim 2003,
It's you from the future. 2016, to be exact. I won't go into where you are in your life right now, but I will tell you that it's not where you thought you'd be. It's not where you wanted to be. And if I know you (which I obviously do), you're sitting there thinking, "screw you, what do you know?" I have advice for you. Two words: expect more. Expect more from yourself. Expect more from your friends. Expect more from your school, and your relationship.
You've been with R for about 10 months now. Listen to me. You're miserable. You deserve better. The reason you're not where you thought you'd be at 30? Because of him. Don't give up your dreams for him. Don't. Pick the college you want, not the one that will keep you close to him. Accept the job offers that might tear you apart, because you deserve them, and you worked for them, and a better offer probably won't come (it never did). If you want to move to New York, because you think that will get you where you want to go in your career, do it. R won't follow, but you'll find someone else who will encourage you, and support you, and be there for you.
Take school more seriously. Yes, I said that. You said that. In the grand scheme of things, high school doesn't matter, but college does. Major in English. Don't waste your time with those other useless majors that you're considering. English is what you love. It's what you're good at (despite what your grades show). It's where your passion is. And it will lead you to opportunities that you never expected.
Believe in yourself. Have confidence in your accomplishments, in your work ethic, in your talent. But, don't be too stubborn. Sometimes, your mom is right (I know, I know, I'm sorry). If something doesn't feel right, it's not. If something seems too good to be true, go for it anyway - you've got nothing to lose. You know how you can't wait to grow up and have a house and a family? Yeah, slow down with that. It's not all it's cracked up to be. Take your time. Don't get tied down to one place, one choice, one way. You have a lot to offer and you're wasting it with self-doubt and silly teenage love.
Now I'll tell you the parts you want to hear. Yes, you do marry R. And you buy a house. But, it ends in divorce after a year and results in a foreclosure. Why? Because you discover that there's more. There's more to life. There's more to love.
Keep learning. Keep dreaming. Keep reaching. Imagine who you want to be, and where you want to be, and become that person. Use your connections where you can. Never be afraid to reach out. Never be afraid to ask for advice. There is an entire world that you know nothing about, and unless you stretch that safety bubble, you'll never see it. Spread your wings. Don't be afraid of taking on too much. Be afraid of not doing enough. I'd like to tell you you'll get where you want to go someday, but that's up to you. Take the time to learn about yourself, and maybe in thirteen years, I'll be writing a different letter.
Oh, and see a doctor. You've got undiagnosed depression and it's making everything I've said above nearly impossible to do. You'll thank me later. :)
Stay cool,
Kim 2016
Dear Kim 2003,
It's you from the future. 2016, to be exact. I won't go into where you are in your life right now, but I will tell you that it's not where you thought you'd be. It's not where you wanted to be. And if I know you (which I obviously do), you're sitting there thinking, "screw you, what do you know?" I have advice for you. Two words: expect more. Expect more from yourself. Expect more from your friends. Expect more from your school, and your relationship.
You've been with R for about 10 months now. Listen to me. You're miserable. You deserve better. The reason you're not where you thought you'd be at 30? Because of him. Don't give up your dreams for him. Don't. Pick the college you want, not the one that will keep you close to him. Accept the job offers that might tear you apart, because you deserve them, and you worked for them, and a better offer probably won't come (it never did). If you want to move to New York, because you think that will get you where you want to go in your career, do it. R won't follow, but you'll find someone else who will encourage you, and support you, and be there for you.
Take school more seriously. Yes, I said that. You said that. In the grand scheme of things, high school doesn't matter, but college does. Major in English. Don't waste your time with those other useless majors that you're considering. English is what you love. It's what you're good at (despite what your grades show). It's where your passion is. And it will lead you to opportunities that you never expected.
Believe in yourself. Have confidence in your accomplishments, in your work ethic, in your talent. But, don't be too stubborn. Sometimes, your mom is right (I know, I know, I'm sorry). If something doesn't feel right, it's not. If something seems too good to be true, go for it anyway - you've got nothing to lose. You know how you can't wait to grow up and have a house and a family? Yeah, slow down with that. It's not all it's cracked up to be. Take your time. Don't get tied down to one place, one choice, one way. You have a lot to offer and you're wasting it with self-doubt and silly teenage love.
Now I'll tell you the parts you want to hear. Yes, you do marry R. And you buy a house. But, it ends in divorce after a year and results in a foreclosure. Why? Because you discover that there's more. There's more to life. There's more to love.
Keep learning. Keep dreaming. Keep reaching. Imagine who you want to be, and where you want to be, and become that person. Use your connections where you can. Never be afraid to reach out. Never be afraid to ask for advice. There is an entire world that you know nothing about, and unless you stretch that safety bubble, you'll never see it. Spread your wings. Don't be afraid of taking on too much. Be afraid of not doing enough. I'd like to tell you you'll get where you want to go someday, but that's up to you. Take the time to learn about yourself, and maybe in thirteen years, I'll be writing a different letter.
Oh, and see a doctor. You've got undiagnosed depression and it's making everything I've said above nearly impossible to do. You'll thank me later. :)
Stay cool,
Kim 2016
Tuesday, March 29, 2016
Random Ramblings of a Lunatic
I've been a little...off...lately. I've been in a really good place for quite a while now, but the last few weeks, I've just been feeling blah. Maybe it's the old "I'm not where I thought I would be at 30" feeling creeping up. I just can't shake the feeling of knowing I should be doing more, but not wanting to. I'm just tired. I'm tired of trying to get somewhere and not having it happen. For the last ten years, I've been trying to become an editor. I went back to school, I quit my steady full-time job for two part-time jobs, I took an internship in New York City that didn't pay and that cost me too much to go to, I took on some freelance work. I'm just tired. It's not working. It's not panning out. And I'm feeling like a failure. I want kids so badly, it hurts. Ben and I talk about it almost daily. But, I can't have kids before I have stability. And I had stability. And I gave up all that stability for...this... For working nights and weekends, for living in an apartment that's not big enough for a family, for wasting my time at a job that makes me feel incompetent, and another one that I love, but doesn't pay the bills. I didn't even come on here to complain. I came on here to make myself feel better, because writing is therapeutic.
Last week, I had a two-day team building thing at one of my jobs. As I always do, I went into it dreading the experience. It was going to be two days of listening to people tell me how to work as a team, forcing me to do group activities with people I don't know. I was pleasantly surprised when it turned out to be a really great experience. I got some networking in, and met some really great people. One exercise they made us do was to come up with a list of things we want to accomplish and why we haven't been able to do that. One of my goals was to get published. And one of the reasons why I hadn't accomplished that yet was because I don't have much confidence in my writing. It's not just my writing I lack confidence in, though. It's my work in general. I want to be an editor so badly, I could cry. But, every time I go in for a job interview, I know there's someone out there who can do it better. I know there's someone who is better at it, more experienced at it, and will be more confident in their editorial decisions. There is someone else out there who will be able to stand up to their author on the changes they've made. And most importantly, there is someone out there who is not filled with debilitating self-doubt.
With this list, we were then assigned to pair up with someone we didn't know and get feedback from them on how to balance out that reason for not succeeding at our goals. I said I wanted to be able to have more confidence in my work. I told my partner that when someone tells me I'm a good writer, I assume they're being nice. No one's going to tell me it's bad. I have never once believed someone who told me how good I was at writing. There have been times when I've written something, and then gone back and read it later and thought, "wow, that's really good, I wrote that?" But, that's where it stops. One person told me I need to reach out to more writers to get their feedback, because they'll be honest. I admitted that I probably don't ask other writers for their feedback, because I know they'll be honest. Another person stopped me and said, "okay, I'm going to get deep right now. You need to figure out where that feeling comes from. What happened that made you feel that way?" I know what the answer is...but, I can't blame everything on my mother, can I? :)
As a kid, I was always writing. I remember around third grade or so, I started writing songs for every holiday. Just silly songs, that I would sing to myself in the shower. I also wrote a book about the dolls in my dollhouse and got such praise from my teacher that she showed it to the school principal. That was the last time I really remember feeling good about my writing. From there, I moved on to poetry. In high school, I was your stereotypical sad sack teenager, who obsessed over boys and wrote sappy love poems. In eighth grade, someone on the bus stole my poetry journal and read them out loud to the bus (he had no idea those poems were about him...). I quickly told him they were a friend's. He responded with, "really? They're actually pretty good." But, the damage was done. I was mortified. Some time during my junior year of high school, I took a poetry class. I wrote a poem in that class that I was so proud of, I actually showed it to my mother. That had never been done before. I had never shown her a single sentence I'd ever written.
She laughed.
Yes. Laughed. I was crushed. Destroyed. Devastated. And she had no idea what she'd done. There was a particular line in the poem that she found funny, clearly because she didn't understand metaphors. It was something about old wounds turning to scabs that I have to pick at until they become scars. I stand by that line. For a sixteen-year-old, it was a good line. And it made sense in the context of the poem. Mom didn't get it. I pinpoint that as the day I lost confidence in my writing.
That doesn't mean I ever stopped writing. I just stopped sharing it with people. I have kept a journal since I was nine years old. I don't write in it as regularly as I used to, but reading over them occasionally helps me get back in touch with that girl I used to be. That sad, confused, frightened girl, who had no idea what she was doing, but just wanted to love and be loved. I took writing classes in college, and did okay. I went on to get a bachelor's degree in English, but skirted by with C's. I now have a master's degree in Publishing, which I absolutely adored. I've done the blog thing on and off for several years now, but I can't say I've ever really taken it too seriously. I've tried a few different angles, a few different topics, but I don't find my life very interesting. I just blog about life. I always feel like I need something about my blog to set me apart from the rest of them, but I don't know what that is. What sets me apart? I wrote a beautiful piece about Ben last year and his stepdad read it and said I was a great writer (he said it to Ben, not to me). I attempted to write a novel a few years ago, which I let Ben read (before we were dating) and he said, "you're definitely a better writer than I am." I've had people tell me over and over and over again that I'm good at what I do. I'm currently a copywriter at one of my jobs and my boss tells me in every one-on-one that I've "got the chops." So, what do I do? How do I build myself up to the level where everyone else puts me? I'm smart, I'm educated, I'm funny, I'm open-minded, I'm passionate, and I'm strong. But talented? I don't see it. Maybe ya'll can help.
(Here's the poem my mother laughed at-written 5/3/02 for a creating writing class. It was about my almost-boyfriend at the time, who eventually became my ex-husband. I was 16 years old.)
Salt
I never understood the phrase "your eyes are like the ocean"
Until I saw the ocean in your eyes
But, perhaps yours are deeper than any
So much more transparent
There's so much more under the surface
The waves are so relaxing...so gentle
Carrying away anything that gets close enough
But, lately the tides have been changing
I've got my own personal ocean
It gets deeper by the hour
And I'm flooded with emotions
No longer transparent, but translucent...
And those waves...now so damaging
So terrifying, overtaking the world
My world
But still, they carry away everything
And they drown out anything in the way
All the "salt" in your eyes
Being poured into my heart
Anything I bothered to open, filled with your salt
And how it burns...yet at the same time
It heals...
And soon, I'm left with only scabs
But, I must pick at them
Until
They become irritated again
And become scars
Constant reminders...
And I know I'll get caught in your ocean again
But next time
I'll get stung
By something I never even saw coming
Last week, I had a two-day team building thing at one of my jobs. As I always do, I went into it dreading the experience. It was going to be two days of listening to people tell me how to work as a team, forcing me to do group activities with people I don't know. I was pleasantly surprised when it turned out to be a really great experience. I got some networking in, and met some really great people. One exercise they made us do was to come up with a list of things we want to accomplish and why we haven't been able to do that. One of my goals was to get published. And one of the reasons why I hadn't accomplished that yet was because I don't have much confidence in my writing. It's not just my writing I lack confidence in, though. It's my work in general. I want to be an editor so badly, I could cry. But, every time I go in for a job interview, I know there's someone out there who can do it better. I know there's someone who is better at it, more experienced at it, and will be more confident in their editorial decisions. There is someone else out there who will be able to stand up to their author on the changes they've made. And most importantly, there is someone out there who is not filled with debilitating self-doubt.
With this list, we were then assigned to pair up with someone we didn't know and get feedback from them on how to balance out that reason for not succeeding at our goals. I said I wanted to be able to have more confidence in my work. I told my partner that when someone tells me I'm a good writer, I assume they're being nice. No one's going to tell me it's bad. I have never once believed someone who told me how good I was at writing. There have been times when I've written something, and then gone back and read it later and thought, "wow, that's really good, I wrote that?" But, that's where it stops. One person told me I need to reach out to more writers to get their feedback, because they'll be honest. I admitted that I probably don't ask other writers for their feedback, because I know they'll be honest. Another person stopped me and said, "okay, I'm going to get deep right now. You need to figure out where that feeling comes from. What happened that made you feel that way?" I know what the answer is...but, I can't blame everything on my mother, can I? :)
As a kid, I was always writing. I remember around third grade or so, I started writing songs for every holiday. Just silly songs, that I would sing to myself in the shower. I also wrote a book about the dolls in my dollhouse and got such praise from my teacher that she showed it to the school principal. That was the last time I really remember feeling good about my writing. From there, I moved on to poetry. In high school, I was your stereotypical sad sack teenager, who obsessed over boys and wrote sappy love poems. In eighth grade, someone on the bus stole my poetry journal and read them out loud to the bus (he had no idea those poems were about him...). I quickly told him they were a friend's. He responded with, "really? They're actually pretty good." But, the damage was done. I was mortified. Some time during my junior year of high school, I took a poetry class. I wrote a poem in that class that I was so proud of, I actually showed it to my mother. That had never been done before. I had never shown her a single sentence I'd ever written.
She laughed.
Yes. Laughed. I was crushed. Destroyed. Devastated. And she had no idea what she'd done. There was a particular line in the poem that she found funny, clearly because she didn't understand metaphors. It was something about old wounds turning to scabs that I have to pick at until they become scars. I stand by that line. For a sixteen-year-old, it was a good line. And it made sense in the context of the poem. Mom didn't get it. I pinpoint that as the day I lost confidence in my writing.
That doesn't mean I ever stopped writing. I just stopped sharing it with people. I have kept a journal since I was nine years old. I don't write in it as regularly as I used to, but reading over them occasionally helps me get back in touch with that girl I used to be. That sad, confused, frightened girl, who had no idea what she was doing, but just wanted to love and be loved. I took writing classes in college, and did okay. I went on to get a bachelor's degree in English, but skirted by with C's. I now have a master's degree in Publishing, which I absolutely adored. I've done the blog thing on and off for several years now, but I can't say I've ever really taken it too seriously. I've tried a few different angles, a few different topics, but I don't find my life very interesting. I just blog about life. I always feel like I need something about my blog to set me apart from the rest of them, but I don't know what that is. What sets me apart? I wrote a beautiful piece about Ben last year and his stepdad read it and said I was a great writer (he said it to Ben, not to me). I attempted to write a novel a few years ago, which I let Ben read (before we were dating) and he said, "you're definitely a better writer than I am." I've had people tell me over and over and over again that I'm good at what I do. I'm currently a copywriter at one of my jobs and my boss tells me in every one-on-one that I've "got the chops." So, what do I do? How do I build myself up to the level where everyone else puts me? I'm smart, I'm educated, I'm funny, I'm open-minded, I'm passionate, and I'm strong. But talented? I don't see it. Maybe ya'll can help.
(Here's the poem my mother laughed at-written 5/3/02 for a creating writing class. It was about my almost-boyfriend at the time, who eventually became my ex-husband. I was 16 years old.)
Salt
I never understood the phrase "your eyes are like the ocean"
Until I saw the ocean in your eyes
But, perhaps yours are deeper than any
So much more transparent
There's so much more under the surface
The waves are so relaxing...so gentle
Carrying away anything that gets close enough
But, lately the tides have been changing
I've got my own personal ocean
It gets deeper by the hour
And I'm flooded with emotions
No longer transparent, but translucent...
And those waves...now so damaging
So terrifying, overtaking the world
My world
But still, they carry away everything
And they drown out anything in the way
All the "salt" in your eyes
Being poured into my heart
Anything I bothered to open, filled with your salt
And how it burns...yet at the same time
It heals...
And soon, I'm left with only scabs
But, I must pick at them
Until
They become irritated again
And become scars
Constant reminders...
And I know I'll get caught in your ocean again
But next time
I'll get stung
By something I never even saw coming
Friday, March 18, 2016
Finding Myself Again
So, since my last post, I've gotten over 100 views, which is absolutely unheard of for me. Thanks to Sophie for the assist!
Now, I feel pressure to write regularly, which was probably part of her sneaky plan.
Anyway, last time I wrote, I talked about a topic of Sophie's choosing, which was, what it means to be a woman. She told me that it was my turn to pick the next topic. And I've been putting it off, because that's what I do. For the last week or so, though, I've been thinking about what I want to write about. Or rather, what I want Sophie to write about. So, I've asked her to write about the one book/CD/movie/etc that changed her life. I'm going to write about the same.
I've mentioned the book many times in my writings, but I don't think I ever went into detail about how or why it changed my life. The book is Delirium by Lauren Oliver. It's a young adult dystopian, which I'm sure we're all sick of by now, but hear me out. It was recommended to me by one of my grad school friends and she discussed it so beautifully that I had to read it. In an effort to not completely screw up all that is beautiful about the book, here is the description, taken directly from the website:
Before scientists found the cure, people thought love was a good thing.
They didn’t understand that once love -- the deliria -- blooms in your blood, there is no escaping its hold. Things are different now. Scientists are able to eradicate love, and the government demands that all citizens receive the cure upon turning eighteen. Lena Holoway has always looked forward to the day when she’ll be cured. A life without love is a life without pain: safe, measured, predictable, and happy.
But with ninety-five days left until her treatment, Lena does the unthinkable: She falls in love.
I read this book during the summer of 2014, during the height of my depression. At that point, it had been over a year and half since my divorce and the passing of my stepdad (which happened two weeks apart from each other, for all you newbies). I had been living in my own apartment for about six months, the first time I ever lived alone. I was dating Ben at that point for over a year, and I was well on my way to rebuilding everything I'd lost in the divorce. But, I was still miserable. I had been seeing a therapist for over a year and she was amazing, but it wasn't enough. I had stopped taking my anti-depressants, because I wanted to prove that I didn't need them (I did). It was getting progressively more difficult for me to get out of bed and carry on my life. I was still in grad school, but had just decided to take time off (which I didn't do), because I couldn't deal. I was crying every day. I was still scared, and still in the process of transitioning my ways of thinking. I have always been rather rigid, for lack of a better word. I have always been fiercely against drinking, and smoking, and drugs, etc. I went to college, got a job, bought a house, and got married, because that's what people are "supposed to" do. In a nutshell, my life was incredibly boring. It wasn't until I decided to go back to school that things started clicking. But, it was still scary. I'd lived 27 years with certain beliefs, and certain views, and certain ways of thinking. As Ben likes to say, "I'm un-manipulatable." I'll take that as a compliment, regardless of how it was meant. I don't easily change my mind. I don't easily back down. Until my marriage fell apart, I believed love was all that mattered in the world. I believed that as long as you loved someone enough, anything was possible. Love was my religion, if you will. Even though I was raised Catholic, I had long since given up on the idea of religion as a whole. I consider myself an Atheist (though, I do understand the need for some people to have religion in their lives. I respect that, but it's not for me). For those who consider themselves religious, compare my divorce to you suddenly discovering, without a shadow of doubt, that God does not exist. That's what it felt like. My entire life philosophy had been wrong. Everything I'd built my life around, everything I'd believed in, everything I'd fought for, and stood up for was wrong. Where did I even begin to rebuild?
It took me a really, really long time to get out of that. I will admit that part of that is probably because I fell into a new relationship immediately (like, within days of making my divorce public...don't judge...). Ben and I were best friends. He was at my wedding, we worked together, we talked every single day. He was there for me when things fell apart. But, it got serious with him very quickly. And while I was raised pretty conservatively, Ben was textbook Liberal. Ben had the old "I'll try anything once" attitude, which was absolutely terrifying for "I like predictability" Kim. Our adjustment period was probably longer than it should have been. And we fought A LOT. But, we both knew there was something rare between us, so every time we broke up (once is too many times, to be honest, but these were extenuating circumstances), we talked it out and worked through it.
That being said, there were still some things in his life that I wasn't comfortable with. There were still things that I couldn't get past. There were still things that I judged, and I ran from, and I didn't want to accept. A lot of tears went into it. A lot of fighting. A lot of back and forth, and head bashing, and hair pulling, and eye rolling, and frustration. I didn't have the presence of mind at the time to put things into words. There were too many other things for me to work through to worry about other things that were incredibly minor to him, but unbelievably important to me.
Cut to July 2014. We had just gotten home for Atlantic City, where we spent my 29th birthday. His aunt and uncle have a house there with a little apartment attached, which is where we stayed. It was lovely getting to hang out alone and spend some time with his family as well. They're all great people and we get along wonderfully. That was the first trip him and I took that didn't end in some sort of disaster. There was no fighting. Things were good.
I had started reading Delirium while we were there, but I find it difficult to read on a beach, where there are so many distractions. But, as soon as I got home, I sat down to read it. And didn't stop until I finished (nearly 400 pages later). It's the first time I can remember reading an entire book in one sitting (minus the few dozen pages I read in AC). I left my bedroom only to go to the bathroom and eat (I actually don't remember if I even ate that day, I was so engrossed). I read a lot, and I had never read a book that spoke to me on such a personal level. My Goodreads review that night said simply:
This book just changed my life.
It made me believe in love again. It made me believe in fighting again. It made me want to live.
I have absolutely no other words.
To this day, I've never written a proper review for it, because I don't have the words. It was in those hours of reading that book that I came to life. My perspective on so many things changed. My views on society changed. It reignited the spark in me that had long died. It made me want to live again, and fight again, and be who I knew I was meant to be. I texted Ben begging him to talk me out of heading to the bookstore and buying the rest of the trilogy (he didn't answer in time...thankfully, I lived around the corner from the bookstore and bought them before the day was over...). When I got home from buying the other two books, I messaged him on Facebook and asked him to do something he never in a million years expected. For reasons of privacy, I will not disclose what it was (get your mind out of the gutter folks, it's nothing like that). But, it made us closer. It was the one thing we spent most of our time fighting about. The one thing that I couldn't get past. The one thing that was keeping me from really giving myself to him completely, and I let it go that day. That was the day I decided not to live in fear anymore. That was the day I knew I needed to start pushing the boundaries and forcing myself out of my comfort zone. That was the day I started believing in love again, and knowing that it can be enough if it's done right.
Every time I have a customer come in the bookstore where I now work asking for a good book for someone who likes sci-fi or dystopian or something with a journey, I recommend this book. The usual reaction when I explain the plot is, "oh, it sounds like The Giver." No disrespect to The Giver (which is also one my favorite books of all time), but this one is better. Maybe it was a matter of timing. Maybe it had to do with the fact that it was exactly what I needed in my life at that particular time. I do believe that things effect us differently at different points in our lives. Maybe if I read it again today, it wouldn't pack the same punch. But, I know that book will forever hold a spot in my heart, for what it did for me.
Last year, I had the pleasure of meeting the author (and her editor, who gave my resume to her superiors!). She was in Princeton, NJ promoting her new book, Vanishing Girls, which I bought, but I brought Delirium along with me. When I reached her table for my autograph, I told her (a very condensed version of) my story. I told her that her book pulled me out of an 18-month depression. She asked me if I was "better now" and I told her that I was. We chit-chatted for a minute about grad school, and she signed my book and posed for pictures. Ben asked me the other day, if there was one book I would take with me in a fire, which would it be? That one.
Never underestimate the power of words.
Now, I feel pressure to write regularly, which was probably part of her sneaky plan.
Anyway, last time I wrote, I talked about a topic of Sophie's choosing, which was, what it means to be a woman. She told me that it was my turn to pick the next topic. And I've been putting it off, because that's what I do. For the last week or so, though, I've been thinking about what I want to write about. Or rather, what I want Sophie to write about. So, I've asked her to write about the one book/CD/movie/etc that changed her life. I'm going to write about the same.
I've mentioned the book many times in my writings, but I don't think I ever went into detail about how or why it changed my life. The book is Delirium by Lauren Oliver. It's a young adult dystopian, which I'm sure we're all sick of by now, but hear me out. It was recommended to me by one of my grad school friends and she discussed it so beautifully that I had to read it. In an effort to not completely screw up all that is beautiful about the book, here is the description, taken directly from the website:
Before scientists found the cure, people thought love was a good thing.
They didn’t understand that once love -- the deliria -- blooms in your blood, there is no escaping its hold. Things are different now. Scientists are able to eradicate love, and the government demands that all citizens receive the cure upon turning eighteen. Lena Holoway has always looked forward to the day when she’ll be cured. A life without love is a life without pain: safe, measured, predictable, and happy.
But with ninety-five days left until her treatment, Lena does the unthinkable: She falls in love.
I read this book during the summer of 2014, during the height of my depression. At that point, it had been over a year and half since my divorce and the passing of my stepdad (which happened two weeks apart from each other, for all you newbies). I had been living in my own apartment for about six months, the first time I ever lived alone. I was dating Ben at that point for over a year, and I was well on my way to rebuilding everything I'd lost in the divorce. But, I was still miserable. I had been seeing a therapist for over a year and she was amazing, but it wasn't enough. I had stopped taking my anti-depressants, because I wanted to prove that I didn't need them (I did). It was getting progressively more difficult for me to get out of bed and carry on my life. I was still in grad school, but had just decided to take time off (which I didn't do), because I couldn't deal. I was crying every day. I was still scared, and still in the process of transitioning my ways of thinking. I have always been rather rigid, for lack of a better word. I have always been fiercely against drinking, and smoking, and drugs, etc. I went to college, got a job, bought a house, and got married, because that's what people are "supposed to" do. In a nutshell, my life was incredibly boring. It wasn't until I decided to go back to school that things started clicking. But, it was still scary. I'd lived 27 years with certain beliefs, and certain views, and certain ways of thinking. As Ben likes to say, "I'm un-manipulatable." I'll take that as a compliment, regardless of how it was meant. I don't easily change my mind. I don't easily back down. Until my marriage fell apart, I believed love was all that mattered in the world. I believed that as long as you loved someone enough, anything was possible. Love was my religion, if you will. Even though I was raised Catholic, I had long since given up on the idea of religion as a whole. I consider myself an Atheist (though, I do understand the need for some people to have religion in their lives. I respect that, but it's not for me). For those who consider themselves religious, compare my divorce to you suddenly discovering, without a shadow of doubt, that God does not exist. That's what it felt like. My entire life philosophy had been wrong. Everything I'd built my life around, everything I'd believed in, everything I'd fought for, and stood up for was wrong. Where did I even begin to rebuild?
It took me a really, really long time to get out of that. I will admit that part of that is probably because I fell into a new relationship immediately (like, within days of making my divorce public...don't judge...). Ben and I were best friends. He was at my wedding, we worked together, we talked every single day. He was there for me when things fell apart. But, it got serious with him very quickly. And while I was raised pretty conservatively, Ben was textbook Liberal. Ben had the old "I'll try anything once" attitude, which was absolutely terrifying for "I like predictability" Kim. Our adjustment period was probably longer than it should have been. And we fought A LOT. But, we both knew there was something rare between us, so every time we broke up (once is too many times, to be honest, but these were extenuating circumstances), we talked it out and worked through it.
That being said, there were still some things in his life that I wasn't comfortable with. There were still things that I couldn't get past. There were still things that I judged, and I ran from, and I didn't want to accept. A lot of tears went into it. A lot of fighting. A lot of back and forth, and head bashing, and hair pulling, and eye rolling, and frustration. I didn't have the presence of mind at the time to put things into words. There were too many other things for me to work through to worry about other things that were incredibly minor to him, but unbelievably important to me.
Cut to July 2014. We had just gotten home for Atlantic City, where we spent my 29th birthday. His aunt and uncle have a house there with a little apartment attached, which is where we stayed. It was lovely getting to hang out alone and spend some time with his family as well. They're all great people and we get along wonderfully. That was the first trip him and I took that didn't end in some sort of disaster. There was no fighting. Things were good.
I had started reading Delirium while we were there, but I find it difficult to read on a beach, where there are so many distractions. But, as soon as I got home, I sat down to read it. And didn't stop until I finished (nearly 400 pages later). It's the first time I can remember reading an entire book in one sitting (minus the few dozen pages I read in AC). I left my bedroom only to go to the bathroom and eat (I actually don't remember if I even ate that day, I was so engrossed). I read a lot, and I had never read a book that spoke to me on such a personal level. My Goodreads review that night said simply:
This book just changed my life.
It made me believe in love again. It made me believe in fighting again. It made me want to live.
I have absolutely no other words.
To this day, I've never written a proper review for it, because I don't have the words. It was in those hours of reading that book that I came to life. My perspective on so many things changed. My views on society changed. It reignited the spark in me that had long died. It made me want to live again, and fight again, and be who I knew I was meant to be. I texted Ben begging him to talk me out of heading to the bookstore and buying the rest of the trilogy (he didn't answer in time...thankfully, I lived around the corner from the bookstore and bought them before the day was over...). When I got home from buying the other two books, I messaged him on Facebook and asked him to do something he never in a million years expected. For reasons of privacy, I will not disclose what it was (get your mind out of the gutter folks, it's nothing like that). But, it made us closer. It was the one thing we spent most of our time fighting about. The one thing that I couldn't get past. The one thing that was keeping me from really giving myself to him completely, and I let it go that day. That was the day I decided not to live in fear anymore. That was the day I knew I needed to start pushing the boundaries and forcing myself out of my comfort zone. That was the day I started believing in love again, and knowing that it can be enough if it's done right.
Every time I have a customer come in the bookstore where I now work asking for a good book for someone who likes sci-fi or dystopian or something with a journey, I recommend this book. The usual reaction when I explain the plot is, "oh, it sounds like The Giver." No disrespect to The Giver (which is also one my favorite books of all time), but this one is better. Maybe it was a matter of timing. Maybe it had to do with the fact that it was exactly what I needed in my life at that particular time. I do believe that things effect us differently at different points in our lives. Maybe if I read it again today, it wouldn't pack the same punch. But, I know that book will forever hold a spot in my heart, for what it did for me.
Last year, I had the pleasure of meeting the author (and her editor, who gave my resume to her superiors!). She was in Princeton, NJ promoting her new book, Vanishing Girls, which I bought, but I brought Delirium along with me. When I reached her table for my autograph, I told her (a very condensed version of) my story. I told her that her book pulled me out of an 18-month depression. She asked me if I was "better now" and I told her that I was. We chit-chatted for a minute about grad school, and she signed my book and posed for pictures. Ben asked me the other day, if there was one book I would take with me in a fire, which would it be? That one.
Never underestimate the power of words.
 |
| "For Kim- I'm so happy to hear that this book helped you through a dark time in your life. Good luck with your grad program!" |
 |
| Thank you, Miss Oliver, for your words. |
 |
| Telling my story. |
Tuesday, March 8, 2016
Sophie's Choice
A friend and fellow blogger challenged me to write a blog post about a subject of her choice (visit her amazing blog here: http://sophielynne1.blogspot.com/). She chose, "What Being a Woman Means to Me." It is purely coincidental that this falls on the same day as International Women's Day, but a happy coincidence nonetheless. So, in a word, being a woman to me, means fearlessness. And I will explain.
As women, we are taught from a very young age to act a certain way, to dress a certain way, to look a certain way. We are pigeon-holed into certain careers. We are paid less than our male counterparts. We are taught to walk down dark streets in fear. During our school years, we are prohibited from wearing certain things, so as not to "distract" the boys. To this day, I will not pump gas after dark, unless I am in danger of completely running out and being stranded, because I've been trained to be afraid of what's lurking in the dark. In a nutshell, we are taught, from birth, to be afraid. So, for me, being a woman is about beating those fears. It's about not letting those fears, and those labels, and those restrictions define who we are and what we are capable of. I joke pretty regularly that "I'm not very good at being a girl," which of course means, I'm not very good at holding myself to society's idea of what I should be. The career I've chosen to pursue may be predominantly female, but it's still an ambitious career. My education is higher than women of past generations were able or allowed to pursue.
My mom and I joke about the fact that she once told me she didn't want a daughter, because she "didn't know what to do with one." I like to pretend that I'm offended, but I know what she really means. As a kid, my mom was a tomboy. She had three older brothers, was very athletic, and was not much a fan of dresses. She liked toy guns, and playing cowboys and Indians, and getting herself dirty. So, when it came to raising a daughter who was supposed to be "girly," she didn't know what to do. Fair enough. I'm decidedly more feminine that I imagined I'd turn out by this age, but I'm still not good at the "girl" thing. I do always feel like I've been too sensitive for my own good, I think I have a strong motherly instinct, and I like making a house a home. But, I have always gotten along better with men. When it comes to social interactions, I don't have much in common with women. I don't even really know what that means, but I find women exhausting sometimes. Maybe it's just the ones who are trying too hard to fit into the stereotypes. Stay-at-home moms bum me out, because I feel like us women fought so hard to have the right to our own careers, and there are so many women now giving up that right. Obviously, I'd love to be in a situation where I didn't have to work, but I'd work anyway. Because I've worked too damn hard in my life to not go after that career. There is no reason in the world why I can't have a family and a career. I don't want to rely on a man. I don't want to know that I need someone else. I don't want to know that my well-being, my life, my stability, all depends on someone else. What if he loses that job? What if he gets injured, or worse? What if we split up (it's happened to me before, as we all know...and it crushed me financially). I want to know that I have what I have because I worked for it. I want to know that it can't be taken from me by anyone else. I want to go to the doctor on my own benefits, pay my rent with my own paycheck. It's nice having Ben's paycheck to soften the blow, but this apartment is under my name. I was approved for and signed the lease based on my own credit, and my own history. I like that. It makes me feel more stable. It makes me feel like less of a stereotype. And when we have kids, you better believe I will continue to work. Because there's no reason why I can't, or why I shouldn't.
So, for me, being a woman means living your life without fear. Don't be afraid to go for those dreams, no matter how many people tell you they're impossible, or that you don't have what it takes. Don't be afraid to expect equal and fair treatment. Don't be afraid to dress how you want, or act how you want, or like what you like, just to fit into some old fashioned idea of what you're supposed to be. Hold your head high, make your own decisions, and be proud of who you are. Because you earned it.
As women, we are taught from a very young age to act a certain way, to dress a certain way, to look a certain way. We are pigeon-holed into certain careers. We are paid less than our male counterparts. We are taught to walk down dark streets in fear. During our school years, we are prohibited from wearing certain things, so as not to "distract" the boys. To this day, I will not pump gas after dark, unless I am in danger of completely running out and being stranded, because I've been trained to be afraid of what's lurking in the dark. In a nutshell, we are taught, from birth, to be afraid. So, for me, being a woman is about beating those fears. It's about not letting those fears, and those labels, and those restrictions define who we are and what we are capable of. I joke pretty regularly that "I'm not very good at being a girl," which of course means, I'm not very good at holding myself to society's idea of what I should be. The career I've chosen to pursue may be predominantly female, but it's still an ambitious career. My education is higher than women of past generations were able or allowed to pursue.
My mom and I joke about the fact that she once told me she didn't want a daughter, because she "didn't know what to do with one." I like to pretend that I'm offended, but I know what she really means. As a kid, my mom was a tomboy. She had three older brothers, was very athletic, and was not much a fan of dresses. She liked toy guns, and playing cowboys and Indians, and getting herself dirty. So, when it came to raising a daughter who was supposed to be "girly," she didn't know what to do. Fair enough. I'm decidedly more feminine that I imagined I'd turn out by this age, but I'm still not good at the "girl" thing. I do always feel like I've been too sensitive for my own good, I think I have a strong motherly instinct, and I like making a house a home. But, I have always gotten along better with men. When it comes to social interactions, I don't have much in common with women. I don't even really know what that means, but I find women exhausting sometimes. Maybe it's just the ones who are trying too hard to fit into the stereotypes. Stay-at-home moms bum me out, because I feel like us women fought so hard to have the right to our own careers, and there are so many women now giving up that right. Obviously, I'd love to be in a situation where I didn't have to work, but I'd work anyway. Because I've worked too damn hard in my life to not go after that career. There is no reason in the world why I can't have a family and a career. I don't want to rely on a man. I don't want to know that I need someone else. I don't want to know that my well-being, my life, my stability, all depends on someone else. What if he loses that job? What if he gets injured, or worse? What if we split up (it's happened to me before, as we all know...and it crushed me financially). I want to know that I have what I have because I worked for it. I want to know that it can't be taken from me by anyone else. I want to go to the doctor on my own benefits, pay my rent with my own paycheck. It's nice having Ben's paycheck to soften the blow, but this apartment is under my name. I was approved for and signed the lease based on my own credit, and my own history. I like that. It makes me feel more stable. It makes me feel like less of a stereotype. And when we have kids, you better believe I will continue to work. Because there's no reason why I can't, or why I shouldn't.
So, for me, being a woman means living your life without fear. Don't be afraid to go for those dreams, no matter how many people tell you they're impossible, or that you don't have what it takes. Don't be afraid to expect equal and fair treatment. Don't be afraid to dress how you want, or act how you want, or like what you like, just to fit into some old fashioned idea of what you're supposed to be. Hold your head high, make your own decisions, and be proud of who you are. Because you earned it.
Sunday, March 6, 2016
Top Secret: For Your Eyes Only
I'm going to let you all in on a secret today. It's my deepest, darkest secret, and I've only said the words to two people in my entire life. Are you ready? Hold onto your hats. Here we go:
I like you.
Are you still upright? I'll give you a moment.
On a more serious note, though, for as long as I can remember, I've heard second hand that people think I don't like them. "How come Kim didn't come out? Doesn't she like us?" "So and so thinks you don't like him/her, because you didn't come out the last few times." I'm exhausted by defending myself. I have always felt like it's okay for everyone else to be who they are and do what they want, but it's not okay for me. Unless everyone else is faking it. But, I do like you. There are a million and one reasons why I might not hang out on any given day. If it's on a Friday night, it's probably because I just worked all week, and I want to spend some quiet time alone away from people. If it's on a Saturday night, it's probably because I have work the next morning and don't want to be out too late. Sometimes, it's because Ben likes background noise constantly at the apartment and I like when he goes out alone, so I can have some peace and quiet. Sometimes it's because I'm broke. Sometimes, it's because whatever you're planning on doing isn't something I enjoy, so I'd rather stay home than risk being miserable all night and everyone thinking I hate them...oh wait.
I have struggled my entire life to fit in somewhere. I believe I've blogged about this before. But, I always feel like I don't like the right things. I don't appreciate the same things as everyone else. I don't define fun the same way other people do. I'm some crazy freak of nature, because I actually enjoy my own company. I am an introvert to the very last bullet point. I'm a simple person, who likes simple things. Large crowds and group outings exhaust me. They make me tired. They make me cranky. They make me anxious. If you're going to be hanging out at your house, I'll be more inclined to go, depending on what the activities are. If you're planning on sitting around drinking, smoking pot, and talking about old stories from college, that's not going to be fun for me, because I don't enjoy any of those things. It's not personal. It's not about you. It's not about your friends, or your house, or your political views, or your religion, or anything else. It's simply because I'm trying to keep myself from a situation that makes me not a pleasant person. I feel like I can never win. If I go somewhere because I want people to think I don't hate them, then I often end up miserable, and the whole plan backfires anyway. If I don't go, because I'd rather hang out by myself and catch up on my show, or do some reading, then they think I don't like them anyway. At this point, I'm translating that to mean, "oh, Kim didn't come. That's fine, we don't like her anyway."
If you are someone who was able to click on this link directly, then I like you. And there is a 100% chance that I wish we hung out more. I don't even need fingers to count the number of people who I can count on in a pinch, because there aren't any (Ben not included). And that's probably my fault. I'm sure I've turned down so many invitations and blown off so many people that they don't see a point in inviting me out anymore. I get it. That doesn't mean it doesn't suck. That doesn't mean I don't still want to be asked. Sometimes I sit at home on a Friday night, miserable because I don't have anyone I can just call up and hang out with. There are times when I'd give just about anything to get out of this apartment. And a few years ago, I started drinking a little bit, because I didn't think I had a choice anymore. That's all anyone does. Like, that's it. And I find it super lame, and seriously frustrating. (I guess that "super lame" comment is probably another reason why I don't have too many friends). I eventually discovered that it's still not really for me. First of all, I don't like the taste of alcohol. Any alcohol. You can give me every drink you can think of and tell me that "you can't even taste the alcohol in it," and I promise you, I can. It's been tested time and time again. I can taste it. And I don't like it. I'm sorry. On the rare occasion that I've been able to choke down a few glasses for the sake of "socializing," I just haven't enjoyed myself. I don't like being drunk. I don't enjoy not being myself, not being aware, not being completely there. I suppose part of me can understand the draw of that, but it's not for me.
I'm simply too old at this point to pretend to like things that I don't, just for the sake of some social interaction. Game nights are an easy way around it, because everyone can drink themselves stupid while I still enjoy the board game aspect of the night. Those are the nights I like. I also like scrapbooking, and reading (duh), and going to thrift stores, and decorating, and baking...but I can't really do any of those things with other people. I'm sorry that most of my hobbies and interests don't involve other people. I'm sorry that I enjoy my own company. I'm sorry that you don't enjoy your own enough to be able to be alone. I'm sorry I don't enjoy the same things you do. I'm sorry I can't fake my feelings and pretend I'm having fun when I'm not. I'm sorry that I don't accept more social invitations (I've made it a New Year's resolution to do so). I'm sorry I am who I am.
Of course, obviously I'm not. I am who I am and I like who I am. I've been through an unbelievable amount of bull shit to get where I am. I've transformed so much of myself, and had to change my way of thinking on so many things. And after all of that, after everything I've been through, and after all the education I've gotten, and all the people I've met, I still am who I am. I'm still "the most not fun person" you've ever met. I'd be lying if I said that didn't make me sad. I don't want to be boring. I don't want to not be fun. I just want to be who I am and have that be okay with everyone, without my motives or my feelings being questioned.
Okay?
So, I like you. I love you. I wish we hung out more. And I miss you.
I like you.
Are you still upright? I'll give you a moment.
On a more serious note, though, for as long as I can remember, I've heard second hand that people think I don't like them. "How come Kim didn't come out? Doesn't she like us?" "So and so thinks you don't like him/her, because you didn't come out the last few times." I'm exhausted by defending myself. I have always felt like it's okay for everyone else to be who they are and do what they want, but it's not okay for me. Unless everyone else is faking it. But, I do like you. There are a million and one reasons why I might not hang out on any given day. If it's on a Friday night, it's probably because I just worked all week, and I want to spend some quiet time alone away from people. If it's on a Saturday night, it's probably because I have work the next morning and don't want to be out too late. Sometimes, it's because Ben likes background noise constantly at the apartment and I like when he goes out alone, so I can have some peace and quiet. Sometimes it's because I'm broke. Sometimes, it's because whatever you're planning on doing isn't something I enjoy, so I'd rather stay home than risk being miserable all night and everyone thinking I hate them...oh wait.
I have struggled my entire life to fit in somewhere. I believe I've blogged about this before. But, I always feel like I don't like the right things. I don't appreciate the same things as everyone else. I don't define fun the same way other people do. I'm some crazy freak of nature, because I actually enjoy my own company. I am an introvert to the very last bullet point. I'm a simple person, who likes simple things. Large crowds and group outings exhaust me. They make me tired. They make me cranky. They make me anxious. If you're going to be hanging out at your house, I'll be more inclined to go, depending on what the activities are. If you're planning on sitting around drinking, smoking pot, and talking about old stories from college, that's not going to be fun for me, because I don't enjoy any of those things. It's not personal. It's not about you. It's not about your friends, or your house, or your political views, or your religion, or anything else. It's simply because I'm trying to keep myself from a situation that makes me not a pleasant person. I feel like I can never win. If I go somewhere because I want people to think I don't hate them, then I often end up miserable, and the whole plan backfires anyway. If I don't go, because I'd rather hang out by myself and catch up on my show, or do some reading, then they think I don't like them anyway. At this point, I'm translating that to mean, "oh, Kim didn't come. That's fine, we don't like her anyway."
If you are someone who was able to click on this link directly, then I like you. And there is a 100% chance that I wish we hung out more. I don't even need fingers to count the number of people who I can count on in a pinch, because there aren't any (Ben not included). And that's probably my fault. I'm sure I've turned down so many invitations and blown off so many people that they don't see a point in inviting me out anymore. I get it. That doesn't mean it doesn't suck. That doesn't mean I don't still want to be asked. Sometimes I sit at home on a Friday night, miserable because I don't have anyone I can just call up and hang out with. There are times when I'd give just about anything to get out of this apartment. And a few years ago, I started drinking a little bit, because I didn't think I had a choice anymore. That's all anyone does. Like, that's it. And I find it super lame, and seriously frustrating. (I guess that "super lame" comment is probably another reason why I don't have too many friends). I eventually discovered that it's still not really for me. First of all, I don't like the taste of alcohol. Any alcohol. You can give me every drink you can think of and tell me that "you can't even taste the alcohol in it," and I promise you, I can. It's been tested time and time again. I can taste it. And I don't like it. I'm sorry. On the rare occasion that I've been able to choke down a few glasses for the sake of "socializing," I just haven't enjoyed myself. I don't like being drunk. I don't enjoy not being myself, not being aware, not being completely there. I suppose part of me can understand the draw of that, but it's not for me.
I'm simply too old at this point to pretend to like things that I don't, just for the sake of some social interaction. Game nights are an easy way around it, because everyone can drink themselves stupid while I still enjoy the board game aspect of the night. Those are the nights I like. I also like scrapbooking, and reading (duh), and going to thrift stores, and decorating, and baking...but I can't really do any of those things with other people. I'm sorry that most of my hobbies and interests don't involve other people. I'm sorry that I enjoy my own company. I'm sorry that you don't enjoy your own enough to be able to be alone. I'm sorry I don't enjoy the same things you do. I'm sorry I can't fake my feelings and pretend I'm having fun when I'm not. I'm sorry that I don't accept more social invitations (I've made it a New Year's resolution to do so). I'm sorry I am who I am.
Of course, obviously I'm not. I am who I am and I like who I am. I've been through an unbelievable amount of bull shit to get where I am. I've transformed so much of myself, and had to change my way of thinking on so many things. And after all of that, after everything I've been through, and after all the education I've gotten, and all the people I've met, I still am who I am. I'm still "the most not fun person" you've ever met. I'd be lying if I said that didn't make me sad. I don't want to be boring. I don't want to not be fun. I just want to be who I am and have that be okay with everyone, without my motives or my feelings being questioned.
Okay?
So, I like you. I love you. I wish we hung out more. And I miss you.
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