Quick sand.

After a wonderful birthday last night, I got into my jammies and crawled into bed next to my beautiful girlfriend. We had done little last night but watch TV, enjoying the rare night off that we get just a few times a month.

I curled up next to her, forming my back against the curve of her front, and relaxed. As she covered the nape of my neck with tiny kisses, I started to cry.

"What's wrong," she asked me, her voice full of concern.

After a few minutes of trying to form my thoughts and emotions into words, it finally came out.

"I feel like a ghost, like I was alive one minute and just a muted, faded version of myself the next. I don't know where I went or what happens but it makes me really sad."

And there is was, all of a sudden. My humor aside, all defense mechanisms laid to rest, I turned 31 and silently lost my mind.

I want to feel like I'm really good at something, like I'm able to put 100% into it. My life is crazy, with so little downtime, that when I'm allowed to be alone and quiet with my thoughts they tend to come up in not so quiet fits of emotion.

What it really comes down to is feeling like a failure. I remember so clearly what I used to be like, really hanging onto and enjoying every minute, and I find myself all of a sudden in the system. I never have enough money, I'm still renting, I have debt and no degree to show for it, my house is a mess, I feel like I half ass my relationship with my girlfriend and my daughter and I feel like I'm not growing in derby because my brain is so discombobulated all the time.

It's a hard place to be in because none of those problems have an easy fix. I can't snap my fingers and feel like a better mom. I can't just suddenly become an "all star" derby player. My house isn't magically going to clean itself. I'm stuck in quick sand and the more I panic, the deeper I sink.

So I'm here, writing (which is another thing that has gotten left in the dust), trying to figure it all out on "paper" instead of letting it continue to lurk in my head. I have no solutions, no quick fixes. I'm just here, human and bare.

Phoenix.

I've been doing a lot of thinking about growth lately - the necessity of the beast, mainly, and how precisely one acknowledges and nurtures the growth within themselves.

Growth, you see, is difficult. It's not meant to be easy or for those faint of heart and conviction. It's meant to be faced down, met eye to eye in a back alley. It's supposed to be terrifying. A good friend once said to me, "If you're not scared, you're not learning anything." I laughed him off at the time, gave him one of my signature eye rolls and changed the subject, afraid that he really did know what he was talking about.

Turns out, he did.

I have had a lot of hurt in the past few years. I've gone through break ups, heart ache, made myself vulnerable and had things (romantic, professional and otherwise) end poorly. I've cried, I've beat myself up thinking about what I could have done differently and I've stayed in bed all day.

Then I got up. I moved forward.

Some people would have me believe that simply moving on, moving forward, is a slap in the face and means I've locked all those emotions in some deep, dark trunk in my brain. That just because I'm not thinking about all my decisions on a regular basis means I'm pretending it didn't happen, but that couldn't be further from the truth.

I've chosen to take those mistakes, those choices (for better and for worse), and use them as the soil that I've rebuilt my life on. No one comes into this world with an easy path, and some of us have it harder than others, but we all share one thing in common... we choose who we are and what we become. We can wallow in misery and focus on the negative or we can be the phoenix and raise ourselves up from the ashes.

I'm not sure I'll ever be 100% comfortable with who I am and where I am in my life. I'm a writer, a creator, and my natural mindset is to strive towards the unattainable. But what I can tell you is that I have never been more content with that struggle towards knowledge, never been more sure of who I have in my corner and who would try to trip me and hold me down. I've never felt more safe to be me in my life and I've never felt less afraid to give the middle finger to those people who can't be there for me the same way I have always been there for them.

In the end, really, it's their loss.

And I'm a goddamn phoenix rising.

Grey.

This morning, I put priority on my writing.

I woke up early this morning to shower, too tired out by a fast scrimmage practice and a late night birthday party for Caits with my dad to shower last night. When I found myself dressed and ready, the dog walked, by 6:50a, I was excited by the thought of being able to head to Starbucks and grab a salted caramel mocha before work.

I wandered into the bathroom for one last go-through with my straightener and noticed a few grey hairs that have slipped past my hair dye for the past few months.

And then I noticed how little I cared about them. I looked at them, streaking through my bangs, and smiled. I've earned those grey hairs. While they used to scream at me about how old I'm getting, they now grin at me and remind me how far I've come, how grown up and mature I am now.

So, instead of Starbucks, I write. I breathe in the cool, fall air and smile about this upcoming season of change and the amazing place I'm in now, due to all of the events that caused those little grey hairs.

And I feel grateful.

Forgiveness.

I believe very strongly in the power of being able to adjust and control your own attitude.

I, however, have not quite learned the finer art of being able to do that. There are times when my mind plays tricks on me, runs away with tiny, negative thoughts, and my rational brain is unable to rein it back in.

I have always been creative. The downside of that creativity is that I often can create scenarios that are unlikely, if not impossible, to happen. When I was dating my ex-girlfriend Jenny, I was struggling with the feeling that I was still in love with my ex before her, Bridgette. In the shower yesterday (I do some of my best thinking - and singing - in there!), it occurred to me that it was Bridgette's constant reminding me how much she loved me and how much we belonged together that convinced me that it was inevitable.

Now, with the benefit of time and space, I can see how little I was making and influencing my own decisions. Besides being a kind of gross realization, I also feel awful because I ended up hurting a lot of people in my quest to get to my real feelings on the situation.

I've started, recently, trying to forgive myself for my past. I hold myself to a pretty high standard and any deviation from what I view as perfect behavior just totally fucks with my brain. I've hurt people, I've made unpopular decisions and I am a human being. We aren't perfect, we CAN'T be. We can only move forward having learned who we are and what we want out of life... and that's what I'm doing.

I have a wonderful girlfriend who, knowing my past, chooses to love me despite it. If she can, I should be able to.

Writing.

Do you remember that scene where Indiana Jones fell into the pit of snakes? There are big snakes and little snakes and hissing snakes trying to bite and snakes that could care less... and there he is, in the center of all that, trying to figure out how to get out of there.

That's my head these days.

My brain is full of squirmy thoughts that don't necessarily have any negative desires, but become something that I am completely unable to not focus on.

It's tough to live like that.

I've recently had to make the choice to set aside one of the longest relationships in my life, the one with my little sister, while she is figuring her life out. I'm not interested in putting any of this into the public forum, but I am unable and unwilling to have a relationship with someone who is capable of saying such hurtful things to me (especially about something I pride myself on being good at). I know that's vague, and I intend for it to stay that way, but I need to put it out there because it has greatly affected my life recently.

It's also inspired me to write again. I remember being that age, thinking I knew everything and everyone else was wrong, wanting to take on the world... I miss the inspiration that drove out of me. Sitting at Starbucks the other day reminded me that, while I might not always take the time to write, that writer is still inside me dying to get out.

Accountability

162.8#. I actually got on the scale four times this morning to confirm my weight. I knew I had put some on, knew I felt (for lack of a better word) plusher, but I didn't know that it was actually 10#. Technically, almost 25# in 2 years, although some of that was weight loss due to stress after my ex-girlfriend and I broke up.

I was shocked. But, oddly, I didn't feel like crying. I have a plan. I have drive. I'm ready to change my lifestyle. I'm actually kind of excited to eat a banana for breakfast.

Let's do this thing.

Vulnerability

There is something about a thunderstorm that rains down a sense of renewal.

There is something even more poignant about that thunderstorm if it occurs after months of drought.

I feel like I've been that grass recently, dried out and crying for the one thing I need to survive. Begging, arms stretched to the sky, for that sense of relief and purpose.

When the sky broke this afternoon, when the thunder rattled the house and the heavy, thick drops of rain splashed through the screen door and onto my feet and the linoleum, I felt myself break as well. 

I'm not sure why I've been so creatively stifled lately. I used to joke (although, looking back, it was one of those jokes that stem from a truthful place) that I couldn't write when my ex-girlfriend and I were together. I remember once standing naked in front of a large window on the twentieth story of a beautiful high rise hotel in Chicago at dawn, starting down at the sleepy people making their walk to get the paper or grab a breakfast croissant, and wishing more than anything else that I could write. Just pen something, jot down something small but meaningful, but feeling so stuck that I felt broken. 

I never understood writer's block until that moment. I had heard people talk about their inability to write, the feeling they had trying to get something (anything!) out but unable to...creatively constipated. Much like trauma or winning the lottery, I thought that only happened to other people. 

Turns out this whole time I've been feeling the same way and too afraid to admit it.

Writing, especially for me, stems from a place of emotional openness and rawness. When I write, I bleed out all my feelings and hopes and dreams and fears, which leaves me feeling incredibly vulnerable. It also leads to me feeling, well, better. 

My thirtieth year is almost over. In a few short months, I will be turning 31. My life is upside-down, backwards and sideways different than it was when I turned 30, in some of the best ways ever. I have a partner who lives up to that term, someone who is actually there for me and supports me and loves me just how I am. I have a daughter getting ready to turn 11 and enter into her last year of elementary school. I have a job that fulfills me and leaves me feeling like I'm in exactly the right place. I'm contemplating losing weight, going to nursing school, getting my shit together after years and years of just letting the cards fall where they may.

None of that is easy. All of that requires my vulnerability, the understanding that I can and might fail and fall and the drive to get right back up. 

Writing is the same way. I always make excuses for why I can't write - no time, no motivation, nothing to say. But maybe, just maybe, having nothing to say is a cover for being afraid to say it.