I’m having a difficult time trying to bleed…

 

My one or two followers may have been wondering where I am or what I have been up to during these last few weeks. The messy, ugly truth? I’ve been avoiding you. You see, I used to use writing as my means of escape. In the past, I used writing as my method of marching through the rough patches in life. This was in my early to mid twenties, nearly a decade ago. Ernest Hemingway said it best, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” During that period of my life, I had experienced a heartache that I never thought I’d get over, and in some ways, I never did. In the process of getting over that time period, I lost the ability to enjoy expressing myself in the form or the written or typed word.

Recent events have definitely left me with the need to bleed, but without the know-how or the discipline. My husband recently had a setback in his career that could possibly be life-changing for the both of us. Due to military cutbacks, he is among the many forced out of the service. In the last few weeks, we have been very uncertain of the timeline, the terms, the prospect of finding new employment, and all that comes with it. The past five years have been a monetary, mentality, and marital struggle. These years have left us in debt, from poor choices and unexpected home repairs, struggling to find our own happiness and peace of mind, and in marriage counseling trying to come together in terms of our unified happiness and life goals. I won’t lie, even now, I often feel as though we rushed into things. We didn’t look at long term goals and quality of life expectancies. This change has made my future expectations even more unclear. I thought we would have children by now, but PTSD has put a serious damper on that endeavor. I had a timeline planned for paying off our debt and then I had planned to finally follow my dreams. I had always thought that I wanted my husband to get out of the military at some point, rather than spend our lives in a state of servitude to the armed forces. Now it’s happening, and I’m scared to death that we’ll lose everything for which we’ve worked so hard. Will I ever have the privilege  of following my dreams? Will I always sacrifice my goals and happiness for the sake of my marriage? Or is this pain and uncertainty what has ultimately brought on the return of my desire to write, express my feelings, and to see what other options there are for me and my career?

In the last year, I’ve come to think of the joy I used to obtain from putting pen to paper. Though with our growing obsession with the internet and social media, I wonder if I can derive that same feeling. Maybe I should start carrying a notebook again, and transfer my musings from paper to blog in some fashion. Right now, I won’t deny that I’m feeling a little lost and out of sorts. I’m thirty and I’m working on a career path that I thought I enjoyed. I transferred to another office and I’m feeling overqualified and under-appreciated. I was told that I would be essentially performing the same position that I had been for the past two years in my previous location. However, three weeks into this new location, I’m finding that I was performing the responsibilities for two positions during all that time. I might be closer to home, but I’m no longer feeling challenged. I want more out of life, and I want more out of my career. I know that it’s up to me. At the same time, it’s all about taking risks, and location, and who you know. While my friends and family are here, I know that I won’t find what I’m looking for locally, I need to escape my comfort zone. How do I convince him to go on an adventure with me? If I stay here, I’ll surely die a slow and painful death in the realm of creativity.

 

A Woman of Thirty

Time and Tide wait for no man, but time always stands still for a woman of thirty.
~Robert Frost

Since July 28th, 2012, I had quietly dreaded the dawn of a new age, my new age to be exact. I would enter my dreaded thirties. In my mind, I would no longer be a young twenty-something anymore, but a woman held fully accountable for her actions or lack thereof. As the day crept closer to this insipid age, I became more outspoken in denouncing my birthday or enacting sheer avoidance, belittling it as just another day to pass without recognition. In December of 2012, I received a Christmas gift from my dad, Logan’s Run, a film in which a large life event occurs for those turning 30. The crystal implant in their hand turns red, indicating that they must attend “Carrousel” in hopes of being renewed, or ceasing to exist forever. Logan discovers that the renewal is just a sham to cover population control.  I will not lie, I wasn’t too fond of his gag gift, as my birthday lay merely 7 months away. I was increasingly anxious, talking to relatives and friends about my looming birthday. My mom said she loved her thirties, as they were her best years. While at the time, I laid her words aside, I found them coming back to me at random. They would come out of nowhere, like a ping pong ball gone rogue. My dad said that it was 50 that bothered him the most.

Sidebar: I gave my dad a card that poked fun at his age when he hit 50, which is probably why I received said gag gift in my Christmas stocking.

I had fairly recently reconnected with a dear friend from college, and she and I would talk about where we were in our lives in regards to our age. We would talk about what we had hoped to accomplish by now, and our disappointment in not feeling like our degrees were being put to use. Instead of following my dream of writing or being involved in literature, I took a job that got the bills paid and offered benefits. We talked about how we had let our artistic side lay idle; in lieu of writing or reading or partaking in activities that we enjoyed, we gave up our passions to sustain a happy home life with our spouses. We talked about how much we’d like to get back to what once kept us sane. We planned to try new restaurants together, talked about the traveling we had always wanted to do and starting up a blog, among other things. At that time, I decided that it was time to bite the bullet, but something kept me from posting that first post. I no longer had the confidence in myself and in my writing. Hence, my blog has been here, for the better part of a year, with only a template and self-description to hold it in place. To be honest, I’m surprised that the folks at WordPress let it sit, with nary a post for this long without condemning my page to the recesses of the inter-web. Alas, here it is, and here I am.

At some point during this journey to turning thirty, I turned down a path of self betterment. I would like to give my lady a good bit of credit here because I think, if we had not reconnected, I wouldn’t have turned this corner of appreciation for where I am and where I am headed. I have finally become comfortable in my own skin, in large part thanks to gym sessions with my own personal trainer and confidant. Not only has she helped me push myself to the point of exhaustion in the gym, rendering me unable to walk properly for days at times, but she has pushed me in my creative endeavors as well. This, right here and right now, is happening just because she keeps asking me about my first post. Pushing my limits physically has allowed me to see that not trying means not succeeding, not only with my health, but in all areas of my life. I became more comfortable with my abilities in the workforce with high praise from persons who only know me from brief interactions and word of mouth. I’m more confident in letting my quirk show through my style, there is a lot of green, a lot of polka-dots, and off the wall clothing choices that have undoubtedly garnered a comment or two from friends and family. On that note, my thirteen year old niece says she wishes she had my wardrobe. I’m not sure if I should feel flattered that she likes what I wear, or if that means I’m dressing too young for my age… As far as my writing is concerned, this is me deciding to let go of the insecurity that was bridled within me leftover from a few crippling experiences in college, coupled with my own self doubt. Banking might be what I’m good at, but it is most certainly not my heart’s desire. This is merely my beginning. Just wait, one day I’ll write a book. It might not be a Pulitzer prize winner, but everyone has to start somewhere. After all, I’m only thirty.

So, this is what 30 looks like.