Your head is a Lazy Susan / spinning busy, out of control / like the wheels of time grinding / you down
Had you asked me a month ago, I would have told you that I had been depressed for a few years. Which, of course, was true. With the occasional reprieve offered by a "good" day or week, depression has been a constant companion. But it's only recently, as I come to strange degree of comfort, do I finally recognize that I have been in an exhausted, joyless shell for more than half a decade. And, for the first time since then, I can honestly say that I feel wide awake.
The end of the year is upon us (thank God), and I must admit that it has been the strangest 12 months of my life. I mean, outside of the current political fiasco/hellish nightmare that is our country right now, 2017 was a changeable creature. To go from a pile of dust to a kick-ass, globe trotting, career gal in such a small amount of time is astounding. I'm proud of myself. For the first time in my life I can say, without a doubt, that I am proud of who I am.
Coming into my third week of full-time Boston living, I must admit that I've learned a lot. Between coming to terms with the fact that the weather is a merciless, changeable bitch and telling myself it's okay to layer 6 sweaters and look like Violet Beauregard, I feel as though I'm becoming a real Bostonian. And since so many of you have been kind enough to ask after my well being and what it's like living up in a frozen tundra, I'm ready to share some of the things I've learned on public transportation.
It's been several weeks since I last blogged. I'm not sure if that's because Canton is low-key, or if I'm just boring. Probably the latter. Something that I have done with great vigor lately is figuring out how to be a better person. Well, I guess to be more precise: I've been trying to figure out how to stop being such a shit bird.
I've been working hard on the same story for months. Years, really. I know I've mentioned that before, but sometimes it's hard for me to get my head wrapped around. My thesis has consumed every bit of me and there doesn't seem like an end in sight. The goal has been to write out fifty pages every week, which is an ambitious goal. Sure, I write quickly, but that much output is exhausting.
For most of my life I've written every day. Summers always slump in productivity because I allow myself to bingewatch too much t.v. and eat can upon can of Pringles without feeling too guilty. It's a habit I intend on breaking this summer. Somehow.
I want to meet strangers and learn new customs and do something that puts me out of my comfort zone. All of these things can only add to my writing. Right?
On Saturday my five-year relationship ended rather abruptly. It hurt. It still hurts. I hate that person as much as I love them. And yet, despite those feelings, I want him to do well. I want him to succeed. I want him to find himself. But where does that leave me?