A Scattered Brain
Tired of life.
Tired of being an adult.
Tired of being tired.
Tired of carrying what feels like the entire weight of an elephant in problems upon my achy shoulders. Some days, it’s a baby elephant. Other days, it’s like a papa elephant. Always a goddamn elephant. And yes, baby elephants are fucking OMG-adorable but not when you gotta fucking carry one on your shoulders.
Tired of feeling invisible.
Tired of feeling like a victim… who fucking feels invisible.
Tired of trying to make others happy.
Tired of trying to keep the peace and not let that metaphorical boat rock too much. Have you guys never been in a boat!? They fucking rock! Both literally and figuratively.
I probably sound way more excited about boats than I intend to.
Tired of putting my life on hold.
Tired of not knowing better.
Tired of living in a semi-quasi-sorta ‘Groundhog Day’. If only that wise and wacky Bill Murray were here in my little bubble of the world. He’d fucking know what to say to make me feel better. Or we’d just drink whiskey.
Tired of feeling alone when I’m not alone.
Fucking tired of allowing myself to be the victim, to be a ghost, to be the faint shadow of what I could be.
Already fucking tired of this fucking post and my fucking whining.
Tired of not using the word ‘fuck’ more often.
That’s kind of better. I’ll work on it.
Tired of scientists not figuring out how to make unhealthy food fucking nutritious, powerhouse foods. I just want Taco Bell and a fucking Twinkie to give me all the nutrients the body needs. Is that too much to ask?
Tired of doing every other goddamn thing besides writing.
Tired of not believing in myself.
Tired of having to be strong. Like, emotionally. Physically, I’m a bit meh.
Tired of always remembering, at times of emotional turmoil similar to what I’m currently experiencing, when an ex once told me I was one of the strongest people he knows. I think he probably only knows like three fucking people (not really) so what the fuck does he know?
(And you, lucky reader are thinking, “You!? Experiencing emotional turmoil right now? Nooooooo. This post is so jolly. Filled with words of pure fucking joy.”)
Tired of not knowing when to quit.
Yeah, I know. I’m too legit.
Tired of getting right back up the next day and taking another crack at this stupid fucking thing called life for whatever fucking reason. Because no matter how shitty life is and how much I so fucking want to quit doing it sometimes (I’ve quit every other fucking thing), livin’ is the one thing that I know how to keep on doing.
Have a great fucking day, y’all.
*I needed a good ventin’. Thanks, Internet!
*Image of trees snapped at The Grotto in Portland, OR
Let’s be honest here. I have no qualms in admitting my utter hatred of the human species.
I’m not a regular coffee drinker so when I do drink it, it’s like alcohol in that it makes me relentlessly spew the truth without any hesitation at all.
But of course, I obviously kid about hating people.
Anyway, I’ve been trying to drink more coffee because: Continue reading
When I’m feeling hopeless, lost, and honestly, a little down on myself, it usually always stems from the feeling of I haven’t accomplished much… that I haven’t contributed much to society… that I haven’t done much of anything with my life at all… and what pains me the most, that I haven’t made a difference.
It’s really hard to not feel that way sometimes when I hear and read about folks in their 20s and 30s who have started their own businesses or came up with some great idea or product. Or teenagers and twenty-somethings who have published best sellers.
And if you’re like me, nearing 40 and feeling like you have nothing to show for it, you think “Wow. I must be really lazy and unmotivated.”
Which if we were to be honest, I kind of am sometimes. I usually have a few spells a year when I wonder “What’s the point in writing?” What’s the point of going out and taking pictures?” “What’s the point in any of the things I’m doing? Of life!?”
Needless to say, the voices in my head can get pretty emo. Continue reading
Sometimes, I’m not sure if I know how to write. It’s definitely not an easy task or profession. I can’t imagine it as a career. And then again, it’s all I imagine. Yet, I think it takes a certain kind of discipline which I currently lack. Or does it? We’re all different, so maybe what works for one writer doesn’t work for another.
This, people, is my brain.
It really feels like pieces that are scattered about, and it just keeps getting more and more difficult to figure out how the pieces fit together.
It’s a rather frosty winter morning as I sit down to the dining room table after breakfast, open up my laptop and look through what I have already written on a particular subject. I quickly read through it, tweak a few things, add a few more sentences, and then… I sit there staring blankly at the screen that is littered with a jumbled string of words that I think represent my thoughts.
I’m in over my head.
I make tea.
I spill out a few more thoughts onto the screen.
I tab over and catch up on Twitter. I should really close all these other tabs.
I switch back and jot down a few more phrases and break things down into a rough outline.
I take the pups out for a bathroom break, and we stomp around in the crunchy snow.
Words come to life in my head as I brush my teeth, and I wish I had a record button for my brain.
I rush back to my laptop and furiously type out the magical words as my brain is about to let them slip away.
My husband sits across from me. He’s usually not here. Apparently, working from home makes him mutter aloud quite a bit… kind of like Milton in Office Space. I ask him if he always works like this.
I find some music on Spotify to play.
I check Facebook. It does nothing useful for me as usual.
The “workday ambient” playlist I choose is not doing it for me. And so, I have to browse around for some other genre of music.
I think I should block out all the distractions, especially the social media.
I can’t sit in silence and work. I definitely need music and little distractions throughout my day. During the distractions is when my brain comes up with those magical words.
Hence, my futuristic sci-fi need of a thought recorder in my brain. I wonder if (more like when) that will happen someday.
I think I should clean the snow and ice off the cars. But, I’m terrified of losing the thoughts in my head… what with not having that brain thought recorder and all.
I think about scrapping everything I’ve written. Maybe I’m not the best person to write this. Maybe I’m only acting like I know what I’m talking about when really I’m just spewing nonsense pretending it’s helpful advice. Can I really live up to what I write?
I open up another document, a novel I began writing long ago… in a different time and a different place. I loosely know where I want to go with the story, but do I even want to finish it?
I sigh a lot.
I look up different music on Spotify. I land upon a playlist filled with artists such as Mumford & Suns, Imagine Dragons, The Lumineers and Of Monsters & Men. It’s a really good playlist.
I finally relent in hopes that maybe I only need to empty some space in my head… to erase some of the scattered stuff my brain has actually been recording but shouldn’t… like the worries, the feelings of failure and inadequacy, the incessant questioning… the wanderings of my thoughts.
Letting it all go feels wonderful. The space of my environment closes in on me, and sounds become muffled and distant. I feel like I’m in a bubble.
I then begin to write.