tired

I forgot how tired feels.

I guess a person can learn a lot when she's way past tired. Like that she shouldn't drive. And that she rambles. And that she can still be happy.

This wee baby is SO worth it...

vulnerable. end.

I think my brother thinks I’m way logical. And that he can say whatever thing he wants to me without me getting hurt. I do hold things deep down. I don’t show tears or hurt. I’m not transparent. I have to use words to say what I feel instead of just showing it.

I thought I’d never get married. Boys like vulnerable. A princess in a tower. My tower was disguised as confidence. I didn’t think I wanted to get married. I wanted to be left alone so no one would penetrate my safe fortress. I had heart-wrenching times when my future husband would grab my hand and attempt to pull me out of myself. I didn’t like the light – I wanted my dark and cozy room. I wanted no one to know what was going on in there. I held on tightly to the illusion that I had it all under control. Having someone try to make me leave that safety was excruciating. At one point, I was close to running like Jane Eyre did, through the countryside, sleeping in the fields and starving. North Dakota was one big field, ready to embrace me. Not kidding.

My sister thinks I’m a rock. Or knows that I’m trying to be a rock. We argued a few months ago. She said what was on her mind. I held back, not wanting to screw it up. She said she hated that she could see that I was in a rage, but that I wouldn’t just say what I wanted to say. I wasn’t in a rage. I was filled to the brim with deepest fear. Hating that we were fighting. Hating that I was coming out of my safe little room and having fulfilled what I thought would happen – that I would be awkward and wrong and stupid.

My mom knows I’m vulnerable, but also thinks I’m that logical rock. She shares her deepest fears and hurts with me. She sees on the outside that I can handle it. And then later, remembering that my outside doesn’t always reflect what I’m feeling, she apologizes.
“It’s ok. I’m fine!” Not wanting her to feel like she can’t share with me anymore.

I’m not sure what dad thinks of me exactly. I think if I knew that, I might know myself better. Guessing at what he thinks can be excruciating.

And what do I think of all of them…?
They are diverse, funny, passionate people. Filled with talent and love. All of them. The whole family. It’s considered “broken”, but the pieces that have been added to the family through re-marriage make the put-back-together pottery more beautiful.

vulnerable. Part 2.

There has been hurt and swirling passions and drama in my life. Sometimes it’s been acted out by people close to me. Sometimes by me. It all feels the same. The swirling passions of close friends and family are felt deeply by me at times. Sometimes it’s been overwhelming. There have been sleepless nights. Fitful dreams. Anger. Outrage. Hurt. And joy, too. Less remembered, the joy. It sticks in the heart – the hurt. Like thick pins. The hurt doesn’t have to be pulled to the surface to be remembered.

I don’t have any physical qualities inherited from my dad. Except my knuckles. This always makes me smile. I used to stare at my dad – his eyes, ears, nose, mouth, eyebrows – to try and figure out where I matched him. There was nothing I could see. I think I got his internal traits. A little of his awe-inspiring ability to be calm in almost all situations. To chuckle, even, when things go awry. On Father’s Day a few years ago, all of us kids held my dad’s hand during a church-ending prayer, and I noticed our knuckles. Such deep wrinkles that spread far beyond the hinge in both directions. I smiled and my insides grabbed violently onto the sameness. I’ve always wanted to be like my daddy.

I’ve always known I was my mamma’s. I came from her belly.

I have the same restless passion as mom. The same wild hair and the same desire to be wild. A tendency toward hyperbole (but also a rabid desire to reign that in). A lunatic’s tendency to follow what’s “best” rather than step on toes, but here and there, we both get so pushed into corners following that tendency that we eventually act out. For me, I get highlights or whack my hair off. Last year, deathly scared of being a receptionist the rest of my life, I walked off without giving a 2 week notice. That was extreme for “safe” me. And I never felt so very alive.

With the two parental extremes, I can see why, in my confusion and desire to control my environment, I act a little obsessive compulsive.

And also why they got divorced when I was six.

vulnerable. Part 1.

Perfectionism keeps me locked inside. Unable to speak. Fearful. It is most cowardly that I’m afraid of other people. Of their disapproval or, worse, their teasing laughter. In a movie the other day, a husband said to his crying and jealous wife, “We’re not in high school anymore.” She responded seriously through her tears, “We’re never out of high school.” True. How to break free? I am inspired by uncouth women. And old women who speak their minds. And women who lose weight. And women who are content – business women, housewives… it doesn’t matter. The contentment I find in others, however rare, is amazing. I do have moments of bliss. Not uninterrupted, though. There is in my nature a constant pulling and aching. A passion beneath the surface. It goes unfed – me not knowing what to feed it exactly. So I feed my stomach. And dawdle away the time. At times.

Confused at the raging between the passion and the longing to have peace and rest. Wanting to write thrilling stories and feeling mute all at once.