Restless heart, restless feet.

I’m sitting awash in white monitor-light, but everything else is dark. The window is open and the cool night breeze sweeps over me. It’s a welcome change. This is the first day it hasn’t rained in weeks.

The past two days haven’t been quite so awful. I won’t say I’m finally on top of work, but it’s gotten better. The seniors have all but stopped coming: I had three in the morning and a total of four in the afternoon. They graduate Friday.

As I sit here in the fading evening, all I can think about is the places that exist out there beyond my window. I am on fire for travel. I want to get out there and go, even if I don’t have a specific destination. If I wasn’t currently tethered by responsibility, I would be out there.

I also think about all of the things I’m not bringing myself to write. My real name’s not attached to this blog and I haven’t really mentioned it to anyone, but I haven’t disclosed much to anyone in a really long time. It’s weird for me. I am full to bursting with words, but I don’t feel comfortable enough to give them a home.

I was supposed to do something for National Poetry Month with one of my coworkers. She had asked me to share an old poem of mine (I wrote frequently–daily–in high school) or to write a new one. I have a tiny, thin, violet moleskine beside my bed for the sole purpose of housing poems, but I haven’t added anything to it in a while, and longer still that I’ve written anything I find worthy of remembrance or sharing. Regardless–scheduling conflicts ended up with her canceling the day she had planned for staff members to share their work with her students. I found myself, surprisingly, more than a little disappointed. I guess I miss poetry and should work hard at writing more of it, even if it’s bad.

I miss reading, too. I just haven’t had time to read for pleasure. I’ve probably read two books since January, and that is a disturbingly low number by my usual standards. Then again, it’s been an unusual year.

One of the people I’m closest to–all right, let’s knock down any pretense here–the human I am absolutely closest to, and that I love more than my own atoms, bones, and blood, is going through some very tough personal issues. He’s dealing with things currently that he shouldn’t have to deal with, and I empathize with him endlessly. I have been trying to give him space and to not be overbearing because I know that I have the tendency to do so. It’s not his style to want to immediately talk about things, so I’m trying to wait. But I wish he would. I wish, for once, even though I am by every account a god damned absolute skull-fucked mess of a human being, he would lean on me and let me be the strong one for once out of the two of us.

My other favorite human, C,  just started semester three of grad school. I am so, so proud of her. Last semester was the hardest, most miserable college experience she’s ever had. She is the strongest human I know, and I never doubted her ability to handle the multitudinous curve balls that she found lobbed her way, but I hate to see her so upset and torn up over what we could (perhaps dramatically) call her “future being in the balance.”

So, that’s a brain dump. Let’s do it again sometime.

10 days.

Currently, I am in a state of existence, so I might as well continue to exist.

I woke up in a dark humour. I don’t know what exactly to blame for causing it, and I don’t know what’s under the surface. All I know is that I find myself stuck in a swirl of negative thoughts that distraction has so far been unable to manage.

My favorite distractions have put me in the constant and consistent throes of some over-wrought escape fantasy. I plan trips in my sleep. Text photos of asylums and castles and quirky road-side stops to my best friend. Re-download apps to help me learn (and relearn) three more languages. It helps to promise myself that there are only two more weeks plus change left and I will be able to breathe without the crushing weight of ill-gained responsibility.

I dread them asking me to teach math again. I can’t do it. I won’t. Even if that means not having the security of a place to show up to every day.

It’s so easy for me to give in to my feelings of failure and inadequacy. Not that that’s anything new or unprecedented–it just seems to be easier to be hard on myself when I have such a tableau of insecurities to choose from nowadays. Shall I beat myself up over the fact that I am still not highly certified? Or maybe the fact that I have not yet purchased my own vehicle and still borrow one of my parents’–hell, that I still (gasp) live with my parents at the ancient age of 25? It’s been a while since I’ve stared in the mirror and thought about how much of a deformity my nose is, or how not-blindingly-white my teeth are, or–just for fun!–how I’ve gained back ~20 of the 40 pounds I lost last year because I have had no self control when it comes to food. #JustMentalIllnessThingz

You’ll have to forgive me for being flippant. I know it’s not funny. I know it’s not cute. Chalk it up to a coping mechanism.

The Great Deluge

The end of April and beginning of May is a never-ending amalgamation of rain here…but, of course, it’s not just rain. To call it that would be to give the wrong impression. Every day since about…April 19…has held something like a torrential downpour. There have been creeks brimming, rivers crawling up out of their banks…

Folks, it’s been a wet one.

Similarly, something small and mournful and wrong sits within me about chest-height, welling up and threatening to come out. I’m not sure why I’m afflicted with such melancholia lately. The most stressful parts of work are behind me: I have 8 days left with the seniors and 15 with everyone else. Yet something persists. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what to call it. I can’t give it away.

The rains are rolling back in this evening. My window’s open.

Whatever is coming can come.