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Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Going home

Well...isn't it kind of funny that right after I said I don't want to blog too much, I become a blogging machine? Haha--it will pass, so no worries. Sometimes I just get into these writing moods, similar to how I sometimes get into reading moods and consume 6 books in a week before it abruptly ends and I'm back to carrying around the same book for a couple of weeks before finishing it. Right now, I'm experiencing both at once, which is a real adventure! Whether I feel like writing a lot or none at all, I always know I'm far better at expressing myself through the written word than I could ever hope to be through speech. It's not that I'm socially awkward (okay, I have my moments but really I'm quite comfortable in public), but I always end up feeling backed into a corner when talking to people, even my friends, whereas in writing, what comes out jumbled up out loud is instead expressed and understood correctly when I write.
Writing has been a big part of my life since I can remember...I guess since I learned how to write in the first place. When I was about 10 years old, I had to spend one long summer day at my Dad's office, and in that time I wrote a 15 page short story that my Dad raved over--until he got to the (pretty descriptive for someone so young) sex scene I felt was intricate to the story as it was part of the main couple's honeymoon. Really, all I remember personally about my story was that I had correctly used the word "mused". My Dad deleted the entire story without printing out a single copy, and to this day I feel like he could have just deleted out the unsavory part of the story, which fell at the end anyway and wouldn't have been missed. I know that he now regrets his rash decision, because as he tells me now, once he was able to put that short, meaningless part out of his mind, he knew that I had a true gift of writing. No matter what my parents and I agree or disagree about in terms of my physical, mental and emotional health, they have always been my biggest supporters when it comes to my writing. To this day, my Dad will read something I've written--even just a short letter or the like--and proceed to shake his head and say, "I just don't know how you write like that". My biggest wish is that they can one day accept my past of eating disorders and cutting--accept, acknowledge, and respect--so they can read the stories I write about those things too. In my opinion, I write my best stories about these topics because they are so intricate to who I am today and what I believe--and must always remind myself--that I am strong enough to overcome. Even 9 years after all of my big issues starting rearing their ugly heads, they still waver between admitting my problems but believing them to be merely attention-getting techniques and maintaining complete denial that any of my problems every existed. And they have never--and I'm beginning to fear will never-- accept that they were part of the problem. I don't blame them--I don't blame anybody but myself--but I definitely think they exacerbated the situation and in some cases, got the ball rolling in the first place. Part of me knows this will always be a source of contention for us, while the other part fervently wishes they will acknowledge all the issues wholeheartedly one day. But I digress.
Writing isn't just one of my favorite activities or a means to blow off steam for me, but it also helps to refocus me on what is most important in my life when it is sometimes so easy to forget. Though I like being an adult, it does tend to easily become monotonous very quickly. In my day to day of work, sleep, cleaning...and other boring tasks...there are times when I get angry with my friends and snap at them for little to nothing; worse still are the times when I get so caught up in my current project that I don't think about those who have stuck by me the longest for days. DAYS. If somebody had told me my brain would be capable of that 2 or 3 years ago, I would have either laughed in your face or slapped you for even thinking such a thing could be possible. These people are, in large part, the entire reason I'm alive. They are the reason I still even want to be alive a lot of the time. If you think I'm being melodramatic, don't. They have pried razor blades from my hands, forced me to sit and talk instead of throwing up a meal, held me close when I felt nothing could keep my sanity intact. If angels really do walk among us, my best friends are some of the best. For me to just simply tune out the memories, the need to call and hear their voices, makes me hate growing up most of all. These are the people I used to have the privelage of seeing and talking to everyday, and now I see them a couple times a year at most. It is so unfair. Honestly, I don't particularly want to be rich, but I would like to have the money to go see my friends whenever I want to.
Really, I want to be living in Mississippi again, even though I am well aware that it won't be like college and everybody has way too many adult responsibilities to just play all the time. Who cares? I don't party like I used to, nor do I have the remote desire to do so. It would be nice to go out to a bar once in a while, but only if I could still have as much fun as I used to have...and I doubt it would be like that. Ugh...I didn't intend for this blog to be a bunch of whining. The thing is, I'm incredibly lucky--I have a full time job and I'm good friends with the people I work with. My parents are close by, so I never have to worry about not having money for food or how screwed I would be if my car gave out. My house is absolutely incredible, and I'm very aware that I've gotten a huge bargain in living here. There's always a million books to read, and that's one of my favorite past times. I do have incredible friends here, and I didn't think it would be this easy to make a whole new set of friends in my childhood hometown.
Selfishly, I miss calling people at 3 AM because I'm panicking about something stupid and only they can calm me down. Driving home from work the other day, I had a panic attack thinking of everything I was missing and almost didn't make it home. I want to be able to make the 2 minute drive to Lauren's apartment when I need a friend to cry with. I want to be able to go to any gas station in town and have a friend there. I want to have roommates like Kristin and Elise...really, I just want to live with them again. When I did, not a day went by that I didn't feel like I learned something--even if it was random--because we always had conversations that veered in multiple directions and encompassed everyting on our minds. I miss talking about all things psychological with Kristin--nobody here appreciates it in the least. Sometimes, I get sick of explaining every term and behavior and treatment...and I want to go back to a time when I didn't have to. When I lived in Oxford, I never took it for granted. I knew what I had, and how wonderful a time and place it was. Instead of wishing for it to go faster once many people do as they near their college years and look forward to the future, I often wanted time to stop completely. Because I knew once it was over, that was it. So even though I know I didn't take it for granted, now I realize I did in little ways. I knew it would end, but it didn't feel that way. My memories are amazing, but I want to make new ones with the same friends and in order to do that I either have to win the lottery and visit them whenever I want, or move there. In order to move there, I have to secure student loans and placement in grad school...and that's much easier said than done. Plus, I'd have to find a pretty good job there too so I could support myself while in school. I love Chattanooga--I really, really do--but it feels like a piece of my heart is missing here. A big part. Even as I continue to fall in love with my house...I just want to go home, and that is in Mississippi.
I want to go home.

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