Orodomop

 

220px-Il_pomodoro

 

 

I hate ‘technique’. I hate rules of ‘creativity’. I hate identifying nouns, verbs, and constantinoples or whatever they are called. Who made these rules? Why are they rules that we have to follow? If I am baring my soul to the masses of strangers that read my blog (there are at least 10 of you), why do I have make certain that I have inserted a semicolon and not just a colon! A colon is a part of your ass, not something one needs to pay attention too during writings of emotional strife.

Like right now.

I am sitting here, on my laptop, legs curled, yelling at my cat because he won’t stop meowing because he murders birds (whole other story), watching the Real Housewives of New York (the one where Luann gets arrested), and testing out the ‘Pomodor’ technique. For some reason, saying the ‘Pomodor’ technique reminds of saying a favorite and very reliable system we used as teenagers called ‘the pull-out method’, but I digress because the two methods/techniques are not even remotely similar.

I am a procrastinator. I have lists and lists of things that I must get done. In my ever quest for seeking meaning in my life I have created things that must be done to attain this. I am fantastic at making lists, and should probably market my technique, however I really haven’t figured out how to actual do what is on my list. Actually rewind that. I can do the things on my list that mean nothing.

  1. Wash dishes
  2. Clean carpet
  3. Floss
  4. Pluck
  5. Clean windows

Everything else remains on my list, and gets carried over to my final task:

  1. Make new list.

On this new list (and every new list) is the task ‘write’. Make sure to write. Write an outline. Find that book on how to get published. Finish your story. Find apps to help you finish your story. Again, finish your fucking story.

Finishing a story is a tall order, I know, and as a writer I will not stop writing until I am dead, or my fingers fall of because of my inability to control my Diabetes – whatever. What I actually mean by ‘write’ is to actually sit down and create. My hard drive is chalked full of beginnings of stories, ideas of stories, paragraphs I wrote when I could not see through my tears, and words that inspire me. I also have finished stories, however before you ask me than what my problem is, these stories and essays were given to me as assignments. If I did not do them I would not pass a course. So, regardless of how I feel about the finished product and how great they are, they are still assignments. What I mean when I list ‘write’ on the top of every list is to actually write because I want to, because I don’t feel scared, or full of self doubt, or tired, or hungry, or anything else I can think of to not write.

In this search to keep myself focused I recognize that I need help. Help on my own. Self-guided guidance if that is a thing.

I have found one thing.

The Pomodoro App.

I know that the Pomodoro (pull-out .. argggg) technique is not a new thing. Apparently it is a big deal that many people have done for many reasons. It is also a pasta sauce. I really don’t care about the history of it – I just want it to work. I have also just decided to rename it the Orodomop because I don’t want to think about the pull-out method anymore. Anyways, I am so happy that I found something that was simple and what thrilled me the most about this technique was the little photo pops up as my App icon on my phone.

A little tomato timer.

My grandma had one of these, and a tomato pincushion, and each one these fascinated me to no end. Call it nostalgia or a far cry from Grandma Alma from the grave telling me to get my shit together and write. Either way, it worked.

I am on day two or writing 750 words per day. This is a big deal. It may not be sole focus of the bestseller I am writing (or not writing), but it is something.

I will take something over nothing at this point.

And a bowl of pasta.

And another 16 words to make it 750.

But, I won’t, because, you know, rules.

Advertisements
Orodomop

Missing, not missed.

white framed glass window

 

Meh.

I just ate a hot, Italian sausage, 10 tiny potatoes, a cup of frozen brussel sprouts and a shit ton of fake, 25% less salt, brown gravy. I am not going to lie – it was fucking delicious. I was going to have some bread under the sausage to soak up the gravy, however I decided against it because of the carbs. The gravy was a great idea though.

Anyways…

I attended a wedding this weekend. I was super honoured to go, as I had not seen my friend (one of the brides) but once in three years. We used to be tight – like every weekend Dexter watching marathons tight. There were five of us on each of those nights. Five queers (two couples and me) crammed into a living room, super excited to watch Dexter’s latest moral kill, debriefing about it afterwards. My friend, the betrothed, always kept us sugar-filled with cakes and cookies she was testing recipes for. We ate a lot. I was happy. Happy with the sugar and companionship.

Betrothed and her girlfriend at the time broke up. The other couple also parted ways. There were harsh words and side taking. Betrothed was my only ally after the battle.

My heart hurt. There was so much that I missed about the sugar and companionship. There were misunderstandings and so many tears shed. I was broken.

But I let it go.

Without consideration.

Fast forward 8 years.

Marriage, breakups, and wrinkles.

There is only one other person at the wedding that I know. A remnant of a life I once knew. A one-nighter that intrigued me. She welcomed me with a smile and asked how things were.

‘The same.’

‘Me too.’

It is an awkward tension that only two beings that have seen and tasted parts of our bodies that not many have. I was happy to see her though. I had someone to sit with. I felt a bit of excitement, the kind that made me want to ferociously make out with someone other than my ex who I hate saying that I am not over.

I wondered though, at that exact moment, why I was so sad. Why I couldn’t say much. I was surrounded by love, but empty.

Why?

To be honest, I don’t know. I have thought about it over and over. I have mulled, contemplated, and mourned my happiness, my sense of belonging, my connection.

Where did it all go?

I have heard (don’t ask me where), that when one door closes, another one opens. My new door must be broken. I feel like a shell of myself, and it has taken me years and years of therapy, hospitalizations, food eating, and food avoiding to figure out where I went. This time at this wedding was an exact manifestation of where I was before – something – and where I am now.

I was a spectator of my life and what it could have been. Kind of like that Christmas movie that is really old and have never watched, where that guy sees what life would be like without him in it. This was what life was without me.

And I hate it.

I miss being a part of something. I miss connections. I miss having places to go. I hate that I can count my friends on one hand. I used to have another hand of friends. I love the friends I have.. I really do, but I feel like I have lost my happy. That time, that time with my friends, my family, is lost.

And I really don’t know why.

That’s a lie. I do know why.

As much as I want to blame everyone for my losses, I really have no one to blame but myself. And my crazy. But, really, the rest is me.

One can only use crazy as an excuse for so long. At some point you have to take accountability for yourself and your actions.

I didn’t have to listen to what others think, and what others wanted me to do.

I knew better.

I didn’t trust my gut.

This eternal search for my happy – the happy I knew, is still a search – but maybe not so eternal.

The only option I have is to rebuild, and I accept this challenge with courage and authenticity.

 

 

Missing, not missed.

wishes under a cloud of unbalanced seratonin

  • TW: depression, anxiety, suicide

 

I wish I was normal like you

I wish I didn’t have to run away all the time

I wish I didn’t feel like swallowing a bunch of pills would be a better alternative than dealing with a broken heart.

  • or drinking to oblivion
  • or just laying down, shutting off my brain, and hoping that someone will just take me somewhere so I could breathe

I wish we didn’t fight all of the time

I wish she never cheated on me twice

  • I wish I had listened to my gut

I wish Christmas was normal again

I wish I was a famous writer

I wish I could be normal like you

  • smile
  • be positive
  • be at one with the universe

I wish you would be willing to die for me and never let me go

  • because I would in a heartbeat

I wish I wasn’t terrified all the time

I wish I didn’t cry every day

  • for no good reason
  • maybe because I am tired
  • tired of fighting with tiny neurons and atoms and chemicals that impede on any ounce of normalcy

I wish I realized how lucky and priviledged I really am

  • and all this ridiculousness

I wish I wasn’t such an open book

  • I wish I wasn’t only able to just write my thoughts
  • But not say them
  • Unless I drink wine

I wish I didn’t drown my sorrows in carbs

I wish I liked going to the gym

I wish I was smaller than you

I wish I was stronger than you

I wish I could stand in my underwear without having to turn out the lights.

I wish we hurt each other less

I wish that the bill collector would stop phoning me

  • I wish I could answer the phone

I wish I could do my volunteer work for a living

I wish I had someone to come home to

I wish I could ease your mind

 

 

 

 

 

wishes under a cloud of unbalanced seratonin

Except My Own Confusion

13124459_10156824376485177_1486234443534930541_n

 

 

As I sit here searching through quotes of those that were just as angst-ridden, crest-fallen, bat-shit crazy, and fucking confused as I am trying to find something or someone to explain to everyone where I am at – at this very fucking moment i contemplate why I posted this one. It hints at where I am at – slightly. But than, as I read it over and over again.. analyzing its every word, connotation, and style I realize that it is not where I am at this very moment. It can’t be. I didn’t write it – Jack Kerouac did.

So where am I right now? Well, it’s not going to be summarized in some Haiku-style work of art like Kerouac could do. Mine is much more detailed, and messy, and exciting, and devastating. Kerouac couldn’t write this shit. I am not certain that I can either – but I am going to try.

If there is one thing that I have learned throughout this two years of self – preservation, self-hatred, self-discovery, self-care, and just being by myself is that no one person can make me ok. I have to do that. You can’t be anything for anyone authentically unless you are nothing but authentic to yourself. This is actually that just came to me while I was having sushi with my dad here in Comox about 20 minutes ago.

I am an analyzer. I will tear down one idea until it is nothing. This is some parts my personality and one part my crazy. I have explained the crazy over and over again and am, quite honestly, tired of explaining it. But anyways.

I wonder about my actions. I wonder what other people think. I always wonder what other people think. I ruin great days by over analyzing text messages that I sent and that were sent, or times between texts, or Facebook messages, or Facebook posts that I do of great writer’s quotes. I wonder if other people will read it the wrong way. For example, Kerouac’s quote above. What does that quote say about me? Am I confused about other people? Am I unreliable? Am I a bag of shit?

No! What I was trying to say is.. I am ready to just get going, I want to get going.. but I have baggage .. so please be ok with me working through it. Not much magic in that quote so you can see why Kerouac won in the quote department.

So.. here is where I am at right now for all those that want to know…. including myself.

I am happy, I am sad. I am confused, yet calm. I am terrified at potential because I am terrified that it will backfire over and over again. I am certain that I question your intentions not because of you, but because I question my own authenticity. I am only learning how to stand up for myself. I am only starting to peel the layers I have built onto my self to reveal that heart of who I am. This authenticity is new .. and I am only learning who I am right at this moment. I know that I am in this inner turmoil of questioning only because I am not happy with my current situation. And I am changing.. right as I sit here. I am losing my comfortable madness to uncomfortable goodness, and I am scared. And I am grieving. And I am lost in this new found beauty of self discovery.

It is necessary. It is necessary to scare myself this way to keep going. It is necessary to keep going this way to test my trust issues. It is necessary to be vulnerable to prove that I can fucking do it.

And this is where I am.

 

 

Except My Own Confusion

Hurting and Healing and moving the fuck on…

So here’s the thing…

When you are crazy (and I am, and it’s mine and I fucking claim the word), you question everything about yourself.

Some questions that have actually occurred:

I know my throat is raw and I can’t breathe but seriously depression does that right?

Did I really make plans to go out tonight or did I just make that up in my head?

Who am I?

Where am I?

I can’t believe I said that.. is she going to hate me forever?

Am I the only person in this world and everyone else a part of my imagination?

Why am I the ugliest person in the world?

So when you are in the here and now.. wanting and working your fucking ass off to be better.. (day by day) you really have to figure your damn head out in order to function like a human.

The problem lies in your ability to be ok with yourself.  When you question everything around you, you forget how to understand yourself as a thinking thing,  a human, a valid voice. You forget (in fact may have never known) that how you think and feel is ok.

When you are sick. . You are sick. .fucking period. You didn’t make up the 103 degree fever or the constant stream of…well you get the point. You did not make this up because you are not some superhuman with the ability to inflict imaginary germs on yourself.

When you are upset.. you are upset. Your set of okness values were not met.. you’re sad, angry, frustrated. To feel that is ok.. more than ok. When you close off your heart for long periods of time to avoid potential cataclysmic events that most people call life (you just can’t deal) and have the fucking courage to open your heart up and it be stomped on by all means.. MOTHER FUCKING CRY! Cry for your delicate yet powerful heart for its ache but also for its courage to open itself up to possibility. . To beautiful life! You have become a part of the majority (but are so happy that your still a little weird).

When you question your set of values.. just stop. Your values are your own. When a girlfriend (now ex) tells you that you are ‘too gay’ (she was the one with the mullet) or another one tells you that ‘you are just too much to handle’.. fuck ’em. Fuck them and their bullshit attack on who you are. Fuck them for not embracing the everything that is you. You earned this badge  .. you fucking earned it.

When you think you are not good enough and feel like you have to hide so you won’t be hurt.. go out! Test yourself, force yourself. Not everyone is going to like you and even if you go on some manic tangent (because you are after all deliciously crazy) don’t fucking worry about it. Not everyone is going to like you, but those that do are yours for life.

When your girlfriend (s), now ex (exes) cheat on you once,  twice,  three fucking times.. get out. Don’t hate yourself because you went back… you went back because you believe (and still do) in the sanctity of commitment and love. You were willing to fight for it even when it wasn’t pretty. You loved and loved hard and were willing to try… but don’t lose faith in your potential to love and be loved back. Your person(s) are out there.

When you look in the mirror and seriously fucking hate what you are looking at (and may go for days without ever looking) don’t beat yourself up. Just live.. maybe without looking for a while until your ready.. (baby steps). You hate what you see because you are not looking at yourself.  That person is not you. That is the sad, beaten down, and exhausted you. You are hiding in there.. you will come out.. (still working on that). Remember that this reflection is what is holding you back from doing things .. being alive. . Drinking with drag queens, protesting bullshit homophobes,  dancing until you forget that there is gravity, loving and being loved by your people, finding those people you desperately yearn for.

The problem lies with the fact that you have not been to be ok because some ridiculous piece of shit chemical in your brain is tearing you apart. You have been fighting for so long just to walk out the door and survive.. you’ve gotta fight. You have to fight for yourself.. for your rightful place in the world. No one is going to do this for you.. but if you let them,  the good ones will help you along the way, but you have to let them in. You have to trust the process. You have to live. You have to fight.

And if you feel like your whole world is going to crumble.. because it will.. we aren’t immune..fucking cry.. Cry alone, cry with friends, just cry with every ounce of you. And than take a breath… and get up..

Hurting and Healing and moving the fuck on…

…..

When I don’t know what to say… i say it with dots. When I don’t know what to say, I write it here. When I don’t what to say, I write. I want to be heard, I just don’t know how to say it with my shaky and uncertain voice.

I have been perusing through my posts lately, trying to figure out where and what I am trying to say. There is a direction there.. and it is so glaringly clear.

The thing is.. I have never felt so vulnerable as I do now. Never.

And I want to be heard. I want to do everything… I want more.. so much more than I have ever allowed myself to do.

This past month has challenged me in so many ways. So many perfect, and scary, and amazing ways. It has taught me patience and a will to fight for what I believe in.. wholeheartedly, without my somewhat selfish and terrified soul in consideration. My fear and extreme self doubt has taken second place. And this has never happened before. And it is good. It is what I have been fighting for my whole life. A belief in something greater than me.

These recent chaotic, brilliant moments have allowed me to practice my authenticity. To declare loudly that I am vulnerable and strong and worthy of love. That I am not afraid to say with the written word that I am ok.. I am better than I ever was because I am not afraid to fail.. or to try. That I have had moments that have made me melt in so many delicious ways.. and I am not afraid to talk about it or feel like I am not deserving of it.

So with this, I am going to continue to just go… go forward and hope and fight for all things deserving. I will continue to take the needs of others close to my heart and welcome them, because we are all the same really… just looking for love and acceptance and meaning in this world. I will practice patience and above all else respect for those that I simply adore.

And, above all else.. I will write.. unashamed, unafraid.

…….

 

 

…..