• It's Up To Us To Decide What That Means...

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  • It's Up To Us To Decide What That Means...
  • Posted by: Lalanii, November 14, 2012
  • It's inevitable. We're all going to get old, we're all going up. I've always thought of my life as this inverted molehill. Tiny but growing. Avalanch-ish. Spiraling to my doom I go. Along the way there'll be a few detours, occasional good times, and a mass over-production of stress and responsibility, there is much need for relaxation. I revel in my sleep. My quiet time.


    Yesterday I caught some kinda sniffle-ache-fever. Maybe, it was a combination of pushing myself so hard to workout, bake the fish, read, worry, be a great producer, over-think the process, and write another nonfiction story. Maybe it was that my wonderful son decided we'd watch SVU together as he snuffed and blew his nose all over me. Or maybe, it was my body saying slow ya roll, chillax, enjoy living. Either way, as bad as I felt, I was relieved to be sick.


    I have to force myself to enjoy right now. To not care as much. To allow myself the chance to make the mistakes I'm going to make. The mistakes that are ok to make because I'm human, I'm learning. My future depends on those mistakes to be better later. I have to encourage myself to say what I want to say instead of what I feel others need to hear at the time. My filter is so convoluted I've fooled myself into believing fake-truths. I've kept my words cooped up in this way before. Old habits die slowly, like a pitocin drip, straight through my heart, inducing my inability to make sound decisions:


    Long Time ago friend: Heyyyyy, what's up?


    Me: O, y'know not much. Just work and writing.


    Long time ago friend: Really you sound terrible?


    Me: No, no, I'm fine. Life is frikkin fantastic.


    Long time ago friend: Maybe I'll hang up and call you back when you feel like telling the truth.


    Me: I'm sick as shit. The house is a mess. I can't sleep. And I miss him.


    Long time ago friend: 'Ata girl. The truth will set you free!


    Me: Truth is--I'm hanging up on you, I don't like this interrogation.


    Long time ago friend: Holla.


    See? An addiction like drugs, really. And precisely why I love this book:


    'When I was a girl, my life was music that was always getting louder.


    Everything moved me. A dog following a stranger. That made me feel so much. A calendar that showed the wrong month. I could have cried over it. I did. Where the smoke from a chimney ended. How an overturned bottle rested at the edge of a table.


    I spent my life learning to feel less.


    Every day I felt less.


    Is that growing old? Or is it something worse?


    You cannot protect yourself from sadness without protecting yourself from happiness.' - Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything is Illuminated


    This week feels so long. I'm so used to hiding what I feel to appear well and ok-that I don't know anymore when I'm not well and ok. I want to jump in a ballroom full of colorful plastic. Swim until my heart is content. Have lunch without worrying how much it's going to cost me on the treadmill. Grow old learning how to un-learn the process of how I've taught myself to feel less.


    And then she sleeps.


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