i am so blessed...

...that I feel guilty about it. And then I feel guilty about the fact that I can't ever seem to feel happy/contended, despite how blessed I am.
I even feel guilty about the fact that this even feels like a substantial problem for me.
I just need to learn how to "be." Just be.

i wish i wasn't so happy here

That only makes the prospect of moving elsewhere seem even more daunting.
I love [most of] the people I'm around. I love what I'm studying. I love this city. I feel blessed.
But soon, everyone will go in a different direction. And I can't be left standing here. Got to move forward.

a few thoughts

1) Blogging, at least for me, always becomes too "personal," and I can't seem to avoid that. Probably because that's the function of writing, in my opinion...self-expression...whatever needs to surface at the moment...but it's uncomfortable to think about all of that becoming public. On the other hand, restraint is uncomfortable, too. So maybe I should just delete this blog and stick to my journal.
2) Home is never the comfortable haven of downtime I imagine it to be when I'm planning to go for a visit. It's usually ten times more overwhelming than being anywhere else.
3) I had a third thought, but now I'm too tired to remember what it was.
Probably nothing important.
Man...the later you stay awake, the harder it is to make yourself go to bed.
Oh, the final thought: vague, disheartening, typical. For some reason I'm realizing more frequently and affectingly than ever before the terrible fact that I am—we all are—absolutely and terrifyingly alone. At least as far as what goes on internally, and when our souls come face-to-face with that final day. I know believers would bring up God at this point, and I hope that's a reality, but still...to be alone, even in love, even around friends and family, you and I are both irrevocably and forever alone on this earth. Fuck someone, you're still alone. Clumsily grasping at air during what you hope is a meaningful and unifying, authentic conversation. Never fully authentic. Forever alone.
I can't ever show you what's going on in my brain. I can't carry your heart with me in my heart, e.e. cummings. I have only enough room for one, beating, forever beating only a single rhythm. "I am. I am. I am."
Alone.
What the fuck, Sarah. Tangent?
Really, though. These thoughts are really scary if you think about them enough. Which you shouldn't.
But...that is where something like writing comes in...attempts to express, to connect. Art. Creativity. Breaking down boundaries. We try to get closer to "it"—truth, meaning, God, whatever. We try and we have to keep trying.

rollercoaster

One day I'm swimming in optimism, and the next I'm grappling with a pervasive sense of absolute despair. It makes no sense. Maybe it's this phase of uncertainty. No, it's something bigger. I just don't want to deal with it—don't know how.
Internal drama queen.

ignorance is bliss

I do think, I mean I really do believe, that if I were simply oblivious, I would be much more content. I see into things and then have to resist inwardly falling apart. See into people. Nothing is more terrifying.
I'm making about as much sense as T.S. Eliot.

i don't know what i want to be...

But I know what I don't want to be. Or what I can't be, rather. I can't be a loyal housewife donning an apron daily to do her husband's bidding—cooking, cleaning, waiting patiently until he comes home. Of course we no longer live in the 50s (yet some women still subscribe to this expectation, some because it genuinely pleases them, but others...maybe because they have been taught dependence, or are debilitatingly insecure, or need to be needed). Yet that is my greatest fear: entrapment. Well, one of my greatest fears.
I also cannot imagine sitting in an office from nine to five engaging in meaningless work without wanting to overdose. I might sound spoiled, high-maintenance, whatever, but I just can't envision that as my long-term future.
What do I want, then? To feel settled, yet "settling" is what I think I will strain against until I become exhausted.
I'm afraid of being tied down, I'm afraid of mind-numbing work, and I'm afraid of the future...I hope I can find something outside of the "norm" (but what is the "norm" now, the post-postmodern "norm"? I'm not sure it exists) that proves fulfilling. A partner who sees me as an absolute equal and is willing to travel and explore and deal with all my ups and downs until I find a place to sit down and rest a while. Or work that I can pursue as a passion, even if it means I'm poor.
Too much to think about, and too much caffeine in my system.

i'm spread entirely too thin

I don't know how some people seem put their best foot forward in every aspect of their life—social, academic, personal. I know I'm too harsh on myself, but I feel like I'm simply not doing the best that I can. I'm just tired. Already.
I think a big part of it is anxiety. I need to learn how to address where it comes from and cope with it more healthily and directly. And stop whining, for Christ's sake.
But, life really feels like a whirlwind, and sometimes I lose faith in myself.

asf;lsmacs;m

Too much to process; not enough words.
Are empaths real? Am I crazy for wondering if I have some of those traits? Yep. Now that I've written it out, it seems crazy. Often I am not readily warm because 1) I have a hard time trusting others and 2) I shut down as a coping mechanism. I feel too much. Maybe I'm just looking for an answer or a label. I am absolutely not one of those "new age"-minded people. I'm a skeptic. I just wish I understood why I feel so inundated with emotions I can't understand. Why things stick with me for days, weeks. Why I get such a powerful sense of people I barely know. Or what I am struggling against and trying to suppress.
Don't let this post give you the wrong idea—I'm happy with life lately. Lots of positive energy. I am just trying to make sense of so much.
I feel like I could type "agiajegoianrgad" and it would make about as much sense.
I wish I had someone to talk to, about everything. Maybe that's what therapists are for. I could pay a stranger to listen to me vent and prescribe a solution.
Or not.

there is so much that interests me...

I know I have time—a lifetime, and hopefully a long one, if I'm lucky—to study any subject I like, but I just wish I could take courses in Psychology and Women's Studies and Spanish on top of Literature and Mass Communication, and Creative Writing, maybe some Sociology, maybe some Philosophy (well, scratch that last one. Existentialism was enough for me). Psychology is especially something I think I could be good at and want to learn more about. Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't change my major for anything. I just love learning more now than ever and am slightly repelled by the idea of focusing on a single field in the near future, i.e. journalism (maybe that's a red flag?).
Or maybe I'm just anxious because I feel like I'm forever rapidly running out of time. Is that silly?
I wish I had studied Literature abroad. I wish I had considered getting my teacher licensure, just in case. Wishing does no good. It's all about now. I am so perpetually entangled in everything but now.

"young people think they know everything..."

I used to deny that. But really, I'm guilty of convincing myself that I am oh-so self-aware and perceptive. Increasingly I'm having to confront the glaring fact that I know very little about myself, and others, for that matter. Which is harder to acknowledge than I would have thought.
Live and learn.

humanities homework vs. every other alternative

I'm not sure how I feel about summer classes. On one hand, it's relieving to be able to put a four-credit class behind me after only four weeks. That literally equals out to one credit hour a week, which is, I have to admit, borderline absolutely ludicrous. I've appreciated our class discussions but don't feel like I've really benefitted or retained a significant amount of information. We don't even discuss the assigned readings. We just hang out, talk, and watch the occasional video about environmentalism (which, I guess, relates to contemporary humanities, and can be extremely moving...I got all bleary-eyed today in class watching clips about mountaintop removal and factory farming and felt motivated to construct an essay on "Why I am a Vegetarian" to reaffirm my values...that's on the back burner right now. Tragic how fleeting inspiration becomes). So, I am grateful and at the same time yearning for more of a challenge. Well, cut that last part.
I almost started working on my final exam right after finishing up my midterm (again, their proximity to one another is both glorious and preposterous), but then a cold beer called. Then some chocolate-covered peanut butter pretzels my roommate bought called even louder (why, God, do such things have to exist??). Then I found websites where women were creating art out of their menstrual blood (I was searching "contemporary feminist art"...go figure) and proceeded to scroll through blogs and photographs, caught between a gag and a laugh the whole time. Mostly gags.
I'm all about woman power, but come on. I saw a video where one of the artists was talking about holding a "red tent" affair where menstruating women gather inside some kind of red-colored structure and bond over their shared womanhood, or something like that. Basically it was just the artist and a drugged up-looking hippie and another girl who probably didn't speak English, lighting candles and talking vaguely about the sacredness of bleeding and motherhood. Honestly, I can't imagine a worse idea than getting together a bunch of women on their periods, especially in a red building since A) red is an angry color and B) red makes you hungry. I feel like most women would probably end up screaming at each other and would only want some chocolate and peace and quiet. Unless they were high, or an absolute psychopath feminazi who likes painting with vag-blood (aka "Moon Blood" give me a break).
I really don't know why I posted any of this.

I don't necessarily think we need a religion...

...but it does seem, to me, that some sort of "spiritual identity" is necessary in order to lead a somewhat contended life. That, or an incredibly strong sense of self. Neither of which I possess, at the moment.

Which is as freeing as it is suffocating.

In the meantime, I am busier than I would like, but I can never decide which is worse: not having enough free time and therefore not having time to dwell introspectively, thus feeling out-of-touch with my inner state and observations, or having enough free time to dwell and then drive myself absolutely insane.

Busier seems better.
Except I never feel creative when I'm overworked. Or, rarely, at least. Also, everything I do write is starting to sound the same. The same images surface over and over again. Christ. Women. Mothers. Bleeding. Water. Reconciliation. Youth. The South. I can't make sense of it; I just let it pour out of me like wine forming rivulets of the same fragments and phrases. I wish I could literally cut open my skin and allow all the coiled up nervousness and desiccated inspiration to release itself forever into the cosmos, perfectly manifested and perfectly out of reach. I would be able to breathe easier. There is so much desire to purge in me and so much I feel like I can't release.
I'm no longer making sense. I need to sleep. Or study for the GRE, for once. (I'm so worked up about the future, I could puke!)

discovery

I don't like blogging.

two thoughts

Allow me to apologize if this post lacks eloquence or ends up being long and rambling or short and lacking. I stayed up late last night reading and woke up early to pack & leave the beach. Which, I must add, was an incredibly difficult thing to do. It's a rarity to have our family all in one place, having such a blast. I will miss the ghost crab hunting, the delicious food and endless alcohol, the corn hole games, the ocean waves, the salt & sand, the sun, the late night movies and talks out on the deck with wine & cigars. And taking a walk along the beach at midmorning. Time to think. Time to be. Mostly, I miss my family. As much as I bitch and moan, no one's family is perfect, and mine is pretty damn special when it comes down to it.
Now, to my original point(s). First, I want to post—at some point, maybe when I'm more motivated and less sleepy and sad—about our society's typically unreachable expectations regarding female beauty. I have thought & written about this numerous times in the past, but it's really hitting me now harder than ever before. Maybe because I struggle with self-esteem issues (like every other female), especially looking at all those clearly computer-edited, eerily "flawless" magazine covers and skimming all the little "101 must-read beauty tips" and "how to attract the perfect guy" and "how to make your friends jealous" and on and on and on. We can never reach the unattainable, and yet we strive. I will admit I do love feeling "feminine," but I started thinking about how much I pluck and conceal and coat and cover...all to what end? Will I ever feel "good" enough or "attractive" enough? And how much do I do simply because I feel pressured to by whatever unrealistic feminine ideals are dominating the media and the minds of everyone perpetually exposed? I used to feel repelled by women who didn't wear bras or didn't shave because A) society had taught me these kinds of things were unacceptable for attractive women with good hygiene and B) well, I live in a place that's full of hippies and self-righteous pseudo-hippies, so that definitely turned me off after a while. But now I'm thinking, why the hell not join them? Why the fuck do I shave my armpits if I really don't care whether or not they're stubble-free? Why are we constantly battling what is only natural? And then we wonder why we're so unhappy.
I don't plan to become a super hairy feminazi overnight, but really, when you think about these things, so much of what we do and worry about is so fucking ridiculous. All just sheep in one giant discontented herd. And women especially. I already hate the fact that women who curse or have a crude sense of humor are considered by many to be "unladylike." We can't burp or fart. And we certainly don't poop. What are we? What are we becoming? I especially feel frustrated when I'm around girls and women who are so stuck on these ideals that they can't fathom straying away from them and act horrified when others do. We need to free ourselves, somehow.
The second thing I wanted to discuss...what was it? Something about how I've realized that it's OK not to be friends with people you may feel you "should" be friends with, whether you have mutual acquaintances, are part of the same organization, etc. Because not everyone clicks. And I certainly know pretty much off the bat who I'm going to click with and who isn't really worth my time. I'll be respectful, but just like some people don't like me (I imagine), I don't like everyone. It's impossible. If you try to please everyone and to be friends with everyone, those truly special relationships lose their value, and you lose some of your authenticity & ultimately fail. I'd rather have a few real, close friends than a load of people I have to fake it with. Seriously. Life is too short to fuck around. Maybe that's my new motto. And I really don't like it when people who likely don't give a shit about me pretend to be overly friendly. Don't waste my time.
Anyway, I think I'm falling asleep, so I have to go. More on all this later, perhaps.

how to feel

I think and feel so much, especially on vacation when I'm inundated with new sights and sounds, especially around family, especially when I have free time to think. Yet I feel like I can't express anything, at least not adequately. Of course, no one can, but the issue becomes more overwhelming when I'm feeling a thousand things at once and trying to process so many thoughts and observations. Sometimes I think I feel too much. Then when I do communicate, I'm constantly nagged by the awareness that I'm only rattling off programmed responses—meanwhile a whole sea of emotions stirs beneath the veneer.
Focusing on these magnified inevitabilities only prevents me from engaging with my surroundings.
But, I've written all this before.
Anyway, beautiful trip so far. As frustrating as family can be, they're also such a blessing.

beachin' it

So, my parents and I are about to leave for our family beach trip. We're staying in a house with my brothers, sister-in-law, brother's girlfriend, baby nephew, and a dog. As long as I get my own space, I'll be a happy camper.
I move pretty slowly in the mornings, but my mom is the slowest packer of all time. She spends most of the time fretting over every little detail. I guess someone has to be responsible for all the details.
My dad is currently struggling to squeeze a 600 lb corn-hole game he purchased for the cost of a really nice pair of shoes into the already overpacked car. I don't understand why he is so stubborn about bringing it along; I can't imagine anyone will want to haul it out to the beach in the 100 degree heat. Nose goes on that one. It is about as tall as a door frame and impossible to lift without a second pair of hands. Apparently corn-hole is "in vogue" now—how is that even possible? And, has any game ever had a less appealing name?
We are staying somewhere in Virginia Beach, a first for our family. I'm not sure what to expect, but at least I know there will be ocean, and sunshine, and books to read, and good music to listen to, and cold beer to drink. I absolutely love sitting out on the beach and listening to a song that makes me feel totally transcendent—you know what I'm talking about? A high without drugs. I love my mountains, but it's hard to beat the sights and sounds of the beach. Mornings when the sun is rising and the sky is a thousand different hues and the beach is deserted save a few dedicated joggers and gulls dipping down into the waves. Cool nights and calm waters. Whitecaps and boats dotting the horizon.
We have to leave now. If I sounded overly pessimistic in this post, it's because A) that's my go-to mode and B) I'm always in a much worse mood when I haven't had much sleep. But really, I am looking forward to this trip. And seeing my family. Well, I'm not 100% on that last part, but you know how it is.

be human

You can't force yourself to be happy. You can't force yourself to be pure.
You can live mindfully. But what is anything else? You're only fooling yourself.
Be you. Make mistakes. Have a bad day and know that good days will follow and bad days will follow. Know that this is what it is to live.
I can't stand forced smiles, skin scrubbed raw and pink, bandaged bruises. I just want to see and to let others see me.
Break out of the system. Make a run for it. Life is too short to stay stifled under too much control.

too much free time makes sarah a dull girl

When I'm busy during the school semester, I fantasize about having oodles of free time to read, make art, sit outside in the sun, watch movies, write. But once I have free time, especially if I'm at home, I go braindead and end up plopped in front of the television eating entire boxes of Wheat Thins and watching marathons of The Real Housewives of Orange County. This...is not ideal. I feel so restless, but I need to enjoy the remainder of my free time before my summer plans kick in. View this - this getaway, this little country house that perpetually smells of cats and cigarette smoke - as a nice vacation.
I don't mean to speak badly of my childhood home. I really love it. No place makes me feel as relaxed. Or as insane, for that matter.
You know, I think we - members of modern day society, especially in the U.S. - are so conditioned to be satisfied only when feel we are being "productive" and "reaching our potential," a potential usually defined by unattainable societal standards. It's kind of sad we can't just pull a Thoreau and enjoy the sunset a little more often.
Something else I've been pondering: I think we all play different roles in our lives depending on where we are and who we're with. I act much more open, much crazier, at home than I would when I'm at my apartment. It's almost liberating. But I also sink much lower once I'm in a bad mood, I think because old thought patterns and negative associations inevitably surface (again, not to badmouth my lovely home or the people associated with it). The first few days I'm back, I feel more talkative and maybe a little more "mature," whatever that means, which might be my "alternate" school persona trickling in. Then I'm happy and carefree and my usual crazy self (crude jokes, strange noises/impersonations, whatever). Also, I'm much, much more direct with my family about things than I am with anyone else, and I wish I could transfer that directness to all my relationships. After happy comes...stagnant. The rut. Which tells me something I've known a while: I need to be away from here in order to grow.
Hopefully I can learn how to be me, 100%, in all situations. Because really, any shifts that occur are just in my mental state as it responds to my environment. What role do I play here? What role do I play there? What do people expect of me? What should I expect of myself?
Oh, the impossibilities of true authenticity! (I could write a poem.)

a fresh start

So, I had posts dating back to about a year ago, maybe even earlier than that. But I think I'm ready to say goodbye to the past, so I deleted all of them in hopes that their absence might inspire me to start fresh and update more regularly.
I've always had trouble with blogging. I've been journaling since I first learned how to write - in fact I have a huge load of them in bins in my closet - but I'm never sure what to write about once my personal journaling becomes public. Inevitably this strips away some of the personal aspects. What does that leave? Entertainment only? Should I just post pictures and recipes and clever anecdotes? I think the blogs that become truly successful are the ones that develop a clear, unique, appealing identity and maintain it. I'm not sure if I have the capacity or drive to do that.
But, here I am, again. I could tell you what I'm reading (Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang) or what I made for dinner (cheese grits with swiss chard and garbanzo beans. Sounds fancy, but it's totally not, and also I am by no means a cook) or where I am (home, temporarily until my internship starts. Parents can be frustrating, but being here is so utterly calming, for the most part. I wonder when "home" will become a place other than the house I grew up in) or what I'm listening to (White Winter Hymnal by Fleet Foxes) or what I'm drinking (tap water) or how I'm feeling (content, maybe a little restless. Deeper, though? How deep can we go on a blog? This is why I'd rather write a shitty, obscure poem that can hide away in my documents forever), but why does anyone care?
Because, I suppose, we all like to feel connected. So here's my blog, not so snazzy and not so insightful, but I'll do what I can. Or what I want.