When it all started…

to me: NOVEMBER 11, 2017

I am at a fucking crossroad.  I am literally, “on the brink.”  Of what? I cannot say for sure.  That’s the worst part, I think.  I know that I am there, that nowhere, distinct place.  It is ethereal. Well, that’s the word that popped into my head, but when I googled its meaning, I realized it is not quite that.  Apparently, ethereal is: 

extremely delicate and light in a way that seems not to be of this world. As in, “her ethereal beauty.” Synonyms are: 

delicate, exquisite, dainty, elegant, graceful, beautiful, lovely.

That’s not the word that I need right now.  I always wanted, kinda as a distant dream, to be a writer. But as you can read from my word choice, ethereal, I am not one.  My vocabulary sucks.  I became quite good at analyzing literature, especially in graduate school, but that is pretty much my only really, strong English skill. Right now, I could use an awesome vocabulary in which to express my thoughts.  My random, drive me insane, ever repeating… thoughts.  They swirl in my head like a wicked tornado and seemingly keep destroying any normal, positive thoughts that remain in the path of destruction.  I hate long sentences.  I hate wordiness.  I hate big, fucking words that only a small percentage of people seem to know.  I am not impressed.  I just don’t think they clearly express shit.  Wow, my wordiness impresses me.  LOL  

As I am just beginning to put some of my thoughts down I am completely triggered by the fact that I am forced to look at the right side of my computer screen because I am in fact, writing myself an email.  When I enlarge the screen then the words endlessly flow across 18 or so inches and my eyes get confused trying to read for a mile in the right direction.  So I feel that I am not centered and maybe my brain will also react to this direction and somehow block what the left needs to do.  I don’t know. It just feels out of balance. How perfect! So is my life. 

I don’t want to write myself an email.  I wish that I had someone to write to.  But I am not sure who would want to read this babble and honestly I have no idea of the eventual length. It could go on forever or until I am no longer at this fucking crossroad.  No one wants to invite confusion into their life.  I feel absolutely no need to write to myself or to “journal.”  I hate that word as much as “yoga and meditation.”  Yes, I am intense.  I don’t even want to hear that you shouldn’t “hate anything.”  I also “love” as intensely.  So that’s my balance on that issue.  

I am 53 years old.  In two months, I will be 54.  Fucking yipee, right?  So I have been googling (what was the word before google arrived on the scene?) things like: midlife crisis, middle aged women, things to do with your life after 50, starting all over, changing careers, etc.  And I am not thrilled with anything that I have read.  No one is blatantly honest.  They write as if all of their epiphanies, realizations and wisdom have somehow seamlessly and effortlessly just beautifully collided with the universe blessing them with precise timing.  Fuck.  Did they get that lucky?  I don’t want just a summary of how shit worked out for them.  I need to know the process.  Can’t find much about that or maybe I am not researching (googling) properly.  I don’t want to hear how happy they are that they “found” their way and shit.  I can’t identify because as I have said before, “I am at a fucking crossroad.”  I need some kind of guidance; a map, a direction in which to think about, ponder and perhaps try myself.  I wish my grannies were alive to talk to.  They would have some advice for me I’m sure.  

I am working out of the country as an English teacher.  It has been amazing in the fact that I have been able to learn a new culture and see many new places in the world.  My eyes and mind have become wider.  I have been able to provide for my two children and myself for which I am forever grateful.  But this place is completely socially isolating.  In the beginning, it wasn’t so bad.  But when my son moved back to the USA at only 16 because he hated it here, then my world started to crumble.  In less than one year, my daughter will attend college and I will be alone. That stark, harsh reality has already begun to hit me like a ton of fucking bricks.  I have already been alone in the sense that I have been a single mother going on for 13 years now.  There are no words to describe the difficulty and overwhelming task of raising kids on your own and on a teacher’s paycheck.  I know it could be worse, but I am not going in that direction. I am talking about my life.  I am acutely aware of how fortunate I am in so many areas of my life.  I am truly a grateful person.  I thank God all the time for the smallest of things.  But again, I am not writing for that which I am ungrateful or just complaining, I am writing because of this “crossroads” issue.  Yeah, it is a big fucking issue that has overtaken my life, my sleep, my happiness, my direction, my clarity, my everything.  I literally feel like a slave to this unknown route and whether or not it turns out alright.  The anxiety is deadly.  It is just fucking deadly.  I try not to take Xanax, but sometimes, when my heart is just pounding like a fucking rabbit and I can’t sleep because thoughts are so rapid and intense; I just have to get up, take a little pill and calm the fuck down. It works well.  Really well. But that also bothers me because I can’t find a more positive, healthy way to calm down sometimes and have to rely on the pill to physically and mentally chill me out.  I think I need more faith in God. And I am working on that.  Some days and nights are better than others.  But until I get there, I am still enslaved to the anxious thoughts and the little peach pill. This is when I will literally punch anyone who mentions fucking yoga or fucking meditation.  

I am ADHD. 100%.  So yoga and mediation aren’t appealing. Yes, I have tried.  Fuck, what happy place am I supposed to imagine?  I work out, eat healthy, smoke cigarettes and drink red wine.  My mind has always raced and sometimes it is a good thing.  I can be very creative because it is as if my brain synapses are wired in a completely different way than most.  I have literally no retrieval ability. I can’t remember shit.  And the more stress I have then the more I can’t remember shit.  Do you know how many times I have had to google how to spell a word since I just started writing this email?  I can’t spell that fantastically either, but at least I do know how to google and even use a dictionary.  Ha Ha Ha.  I just spelled dictionary incorrectly, but autocorrect was kind enough to recognize and change it for me.  Sometimes I think that this kind of thinking, random ass ADD shit is also what makes me crazy.  Then add to that the fact that I really don’t have anyone to talk to whom I trust and feel that they can relate, puts me back into my own crazy mind.  My husband once said, “God, I would never want to spend a day in your mind.” He was just being honest.  I have to agree.  

So sometimes I get this almost happy, ethereal feeling that I am on the brink… the brink of something that is going to be amazingly wonderful or… 

Or I see the other, shadowy, gray side of the brink which is dismal.  That’s the crossroads that I am standing near presently.  I keep waiting and praying for an epiphany.  But it doesn’t come. When I do get some ideas, then they are unclear.  

I have always heard, since Sunday school when I was about 7-8 or so that “God made everyone with a special purpose.”  And you have to find that special purpose.  That has weighed me down an entire lifetime.  It is not uplifting or inspiring.  It is a fucking, dead weight. It is a dark shroud that buries me on every level of my existence.  I am also supposed to “find my passion” in life.  Fuck, I don’t know what that is either.  So when do you think I will know?  I am almost 54. Shit, I will be dead sooner than later.  So when am I going to know what the fuck they are?”  It literally drives me 100% insane.  I think America has also fucked me up with the commercials, the rhetoric, the over the top every-fucking-thing. I wasn’t sure how to write that special word so I just inserted hyphens.  Autocorrect doesn’t know what to do.   If I knew my “special purpose” or my “passion” then I would most likely have no need to write this stupid email to myself.  I am not even going to read it.  I just wanted to save it so I thought this would be a way in which to accomplish that little task.  

So the lighter side of the brink which I am standing on is pleasant.  It gives me hope that the future is yet to be known and that everything is going to be alright.  Even better than alright.  Like maybe amazing in ways that I could have never envisioned for myself.  

But the other side is depressing and gives me anxiety. What if I am just fooling myself when I get a glimpse of the lighter side?  I can’t see either one clearly.  They weigh the same.  They are equal. I wonder which way I will eventually go? 

I wonder how many emails I will have to keep writing to myself@gmail.com before I have answers.  I wonder if I will ever be able to stop writing because the “light” beamed before me and led me to the right path.  I wonder if I do find the right, light path if I will write some stupid, happy little summary of how it all just mysteriously worked out… 

That’s why I am writing this process.  It is obvious, and was probably quite obvious in the first few sentences of the email that I have no direction.  I am completely lost.  If I do find the bright, ethereal path then maybe my process will help someone else.  Other than my reward of being happy for finding my way in life, it would give me great pleasure to know that maybe my words and journey helped another.  We need maps not destinations in life.  

I am tired now.  You can see how my mind works and it is exhausting to me as well.  I live in a stream of conscious world.  My mind works like this all the time.  I just think and say and feel whatever I am at the time.  I don’t have a lot of filters.  Who cares?  Fuck filters.  Filters distort everything. 

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