Crazy is on a break.

Shayla, ma'am, I'm writing on this blog first because I know you're going through withdrawals. :)

That said, I'm on a fucking break. I give! I'm throwing my hands into the air, and shaking angry fists at ye gods above! "I defy you, stars!" Somewhat dramatic? Of course. What else would you expect? But all Montague quoting aside, I've come to a painful conclusion.

I'm done dating for a while. Yes, I always have the best stories, and yes they are all (sadly) true. And yes, generally I am the one to dance away, whistling, better off for the experiences, tucking them away for a time when I could use the wisdom and truths again. But times are changing. I'm growing up, learning, coming to learn the pleasure of sharing myself with someone special - someone who takes my breath away. Had I ever had that before? I have come close a couple of times in the past.

This time? Ugh, this time was different.

Jess fell. That shit hurts, and I'm bruised and sore now, sitting on the ground, taking stock of my sore body, rubbing at the bruises and wondering how on earth I got here. I have always kept a pretty tough dating exterior, ensuring that the select few I let in were let go before they could slice and scratch at my heart. Little known fact about the Jess: her heart has had enough pain and trauma in her young life to choke a horse. And though usually entertaining for other people, she runs for sheer protection. I try to keep the Jess's heart wrapped up in a protective cocoon, to save her from situations like this. (I'm sure you see the meta aspect of all this?)

Details! You clamor for details! Ok, fine. It's simple, I guess.

I met a boy. I opened up to said boy; we'll call the boy Bob. Bob's a fine name. I met Bob. I pushed down my personal walls, and opened my whole self to Bob. I fell HARD for Bob. Bob (I thought) fell hard for me. He said so anyway. Bob opened doors; Bob opened his home during one of the toughest two-week spans in recent history, and Bob made me coffee in the morning. He gave me his garage door opener. Bob had book cases full of well-thumbed volumes. You see where I'm going with this?

In an absolutely stunning span of time, I fell like a tree in a hurricane. I'm not ashamed to admit it now; it doesn't ever hurt anything to admit you're human; fallible, and to the point of love-able. Kids, I was right there, standing on the edge of a precipice, peering over the side and thinking (for once) "You know what? I can do this. And I can love it!" I closed my eyes, stepped off, and dove. Fuck it. Just jump Jess.

And just like that, he was gone. No calls, no texts, no nada. So here I am, on the ground, wiping away dirt-smudged tears, taking stock of myself and my bruised heart and mind. And make no mistake, this is a different hurt than I've probably ever felt, though I haven't given myself permission to really delve deeply into my psyche to find out. But it feels different. I'm mourning something that, in its short tenure, was a dream. I had, for a short time, grasped the mirage of my dreams.

And like all mirages, I'm left feeling emptier, clutching at nothing but air and a broken heart.

माय करे

Today has been a really rough day. I'm just emotionally drained, and my head hurts. Thinking is inevitable, though, and I can't stop it. There are too many options to consider, too much stress lying squarely on my shoulders. I need a decision, and I need something to give. I haven't even given myself permission to write, so everything is bottled up and threatening to explode like those stupid (and AWESOME) volcanoes that kids used to perennially enter into science fairs. Hope springs eternal, I guess.

My frustration is . . . overwhelming. What do I want out of life? I'm at the point where I want some stability, and the thought of a plan. An outline. A fucking flow chart. Something that will tell me where to go, and what I shouldn't waste my time on. My endeavours thus far have been worthwhile (to me, anyway). Most people probably think I'm nuts for doing so many different things, and constantly seeking out new experiences. It's not even really a choice.

I'm driven. I am kind of tired of being driven - I'm ready to drive. No, wait, let's take that metaphor a bit further - I'd even go so far as to say I'm ready to be a passenger. There are many times (becoming more frequent) when I'm envious of the people who know their whole lives exactly what they want, and how they'll go about it. I could use a dose of that right now - but Charles reminded me today that I have a lot of really great options from which to choose.

And for those who know me best, I would hope that they know that I'm not as wishy-washy as I seem. I have seen and done a lot, and life is short. I just don't want to miss anything.

But while I'm busy not missing anything, what am I missing? Isn't there something to be said about direction? I want to find out!

And it's already a successful day

I seem to have a hard time learning in a non-traditional environment. One summer when I was working my way through my bachelor's degree, I took 5 summer courses. Three of them were online, and I finished one of them in a few hours. Of course, it was a magazine writing class, and all the professor gave us was a list of topics. I let my imagination fly, and my fingers follow suit, and before I knew it, I had achieved an A in one evening. I'm afraid I've had a jaded view of online learning ever since.

The more I try online courses, however, the more I realize what an anomaly that class was. Or, more appropriately, that the course suited my particular talents. Now I'm in online courses for my Texas real estate license. I'm finding it to be a huge pain in the ass. Sitting down and taking time to read legal terms is frustrating. Frustrating because I like to know exactly what I'm doing and talking about; I hate being anything except at the top of my game. Being the least knowledgeable person at a business table is very low on my priority list! So . . . how is this a successful day?

I've made my own personal list of the things I need to get done, and the things I need to learn in order to feel successful. (And to gain licensure). The thing I've learned over the past few weeks is that success is learning what I need to do in order to be successful, and looking inward to find the tools I need in order to do that.

I'm rambling, but learning how I learn has made today a success. ;)

Nickel For Your Thoughts?

All right, all right, I'm up. It's 7:45, and I've been up for a few minutes, ripping myself awake with the knowledge that some people have been awake for hours. HOURS, I think to myself, while digging down to find the motivation to keep my eyes open and my body erect.

I've got miles to go before I sleep (again) . . . you'll have to forgive me. Robert Frost is my favorite poet, and that's . . . nevermind. I'm trying to wake up my body, so I start making my bed, all the while jamming out to a little music for motivation. But while I make my bed, my mind reverts back to a time when I'm not more than a pipsqueak, trotting after my great grandpa at their smoke-filled, dated Indiana farmhouse house.

Grandpa Joe was my hero - one of those people who shimmer into and out of your life and leave a trail of stardust in your eyes. He gave me direction, gave me love, and made me feel like the light he was to me, and even gave me a pipsqueak-sized set of overalls to match his. I love him purely, and without question - something I find sort of intimidating in my adult life to accomplish. We used to go on these walks in the summertime, back across a plain stone bridge over a creek. I would sit and swing my feet over the creek while he wandered and told me stories, limericks, jokes, whatever came to mind. In general, he wasn't a big talker, so a lot of the time we would just sit side by side in silence, enjoying the day and each other's company. Even as a kiddo, I listened, and I knew this guy was something special. I didn't, of course, realize that those lapses into silence, and some of the wandering away was due to his slow descent into Alzheimer's. Eventually, silence filled his life, and stole the light out of his twinkling, faded blue eyes.

I lived with my great grandparents off and on through my childhood, and got to spend a lot of quality time learning from these two amazing people. (The word 'amazing' is often overused; I flip back through my memories, and feel amazed that I got a chance to really know these people.) Often, in the mornings, Grandpa Joe would ask me in his gruff voice, "Do you want to earn a nickel?" I was, of course, eager.

So, we would stand on opposite sides of his and Grandma's bed, and while she cooked breakfast, he and I would meticulously make up the bed. His gnarled fingers would so tenderly tuck the sheets in beneath the pillows, freshly fluffed, and I would do my best to mimic his moves. By the time we finished, there was one perfect side, and one not so perfect one, but it never mattered. We would have breakfast, and we would go on about our day. Sometimes we would walk; sometimes we would listen to eight-tracks of Elvis. It didn't really matter.

You know, I never saw a nickel of that money. That never mattered either.

I just want to sulk

I put on a dress. I had a shitty day, and he was gone for two weeks, so I came home and put on a dress. I feel fat and emotional, and hate hormones. And I missed him. All day I could have cried, for no reason. Holding back the tears took monumental effort, and so I came home and got ready. He barely said goodbye when he left, and let me know he was leaving when he was packing, and his roommate took him to the airport, even though I was available to do it. I didn't get to drive him to the airport; I don't know that it occurred to him that I wanted to kiss him and tell him to be safe. I have struggled for my adult life to feel special enough to warrant affection, and to let it in. Growing up, I was taught by example that everyone else in the room is more important than I am, and that's followed me for a long time. Usually, I just keep everyone on the surface, but that only works for so long. I was taught to say, 'no I don't need that', or 'no, that's okay, do what makes you happy. Don't worry about me,' which ultimately translates to 'my feelings aren't that important. I'm the cool chick.' I don't know how. I just don't know how to say my thoughts and opinions are just as important - and even worse, I don't know how to believe it myself. And now he's back, and I put on a dress, emotional and fat, and I don't feel overly special. It's not his fault. Maybe I'm oversensitive. But I'm in a dress, alone.

Just when it was all looking up, a bird flew by

I lifted my eyes toward the sun; its rays shone down on me as I tilted my head toward it to receive its blessing. All seemed right and well - the clouds were gone, darkness melted away, and just as I relaxed and allowed myself to receive its beauty openly, a raven swooped down from the heavens and crapped on my head.

Sonofabitch.

I feel like I have been under a lot of pressure to be the perfect mix of lover and friend, and I think I'm being judged - a lot. I've been walking on egg shells, and I still manage to hurt the people I care most about. Is it that I need to change, or that the climate around me is changing? The things I used to understand to be kosher are now inappropriate, but I need some explanation, some clarity before I can proceed down a different road. That fucking road is bumpy and dusty, and yet it's challenging and fresh. Truth be told, minus the flowers and pomp, I'm scared to death. I'm afraid that I've found something worth fighting for; ghosts, history, fear, walls don't belong in this scenario. But how does one rid herself of these unappealing features, when nobody is gently reminding her that she doesn't need to use them anymore? All that's happening is that the walls are slowly building themselves back up, one shovel full of mortar and one layer of brick at a time. I can almost hear the scrape of it as it grows, stone upon stone. And somehow I feel bound, powerless to stop it like the archetypal maiden in distress. Cinderella didn't have abusive exes, or a history that would instill disgust into any slithering tabloid journalist. I mean, who actually believes that shit? Some days, it's certainly not me who believes - but worse, I know it. I now it because it's been burned white-hot into the very marrow of my bones.

But truth be told, that's my story. My story is on the shelf, too unbelievable to be read seriously. Therefore, I have a lot of baggage, and all I know how to do is be one of the guys. Nobody was ever really interested in getting to know that other side - the one who dreams, and hopes, and plans how she'll fall in love, or come to see a lover as a true life partner. She dreams of romance, and of her love requiting the feeling and embracing every one of her failures, and every one of her shortcomings, just as she would of his. She is the girl who sits in the middle of a field, or in a glade listening to the sounds of nature, oblivious to the fact that I'm even around in their neck of the neighborhood. She is the girl who attempts to write the lyrics to what she hears buzzing around her. She's the girl who finds romance in a touch, the way a blade of grass allows itself to be caressed by her hand as a spring breeze breathes around her. She's the girl with her leather bound notebook empty because she hasn't yet decided which story to tell today. This girl is waiting for her prince to come, but most of the time he's out drinking with his buddies, and fails to see these other qualities. So then she deconstructs, becomes that tough, run of the mill chick who is simply one of the guys.

I feel like every time I reach out to open myself up to the sun, to show it who I really am and what I'm capable of if properly nurtured, I get burned. Cliche, yes. I need nurture. I need nature. I need love, unconditional. I need clarity. I need to hear, and to listen to what he has to say. What is his heart telling him? How far up or down are his walls? Does he feel like I do, that we need to talk things through, and shift gears into something more smooth and less bumpy and unpleasant. To what degree does he want me to change? To what degree do I want to change him? Truth be told, I want to be let in on his little secrets - I want to know why he's been changing on a dime lately. And why everything I do irks him. Everything I do irks him, and that makes me feel like less than someone special. It makes me feel small, unimportant and unworthy. Does he know he's doing that to me? He's been tightly wound, stressed, looking down on me, and then snuggling with me until I think I'm the only person in his world. It's the looking down on me, and not treating me in a romantic way (i.e. having a real date?) When we're together, his attention seems to be all on me, but something is missing. I want to start at square one, then proceed. Right now I feel like I'm focusing every ounce of attention I have, just to keep my head above water, and to stop the smatter, scrape and push of mortar and brick from enveloping me completely.

Rainy days are made for books and coffee . . .

And snuggling. But since I had to be up at the butt crack of 8, snuggling was out of the question. Seriously, who even knew that there was an 8 in the a.m. too?! But all joking aside, I woke up in my new bedroom, which is huge and cavernous, and the sky was overcast and dripping. My room was a little chilly, so I was snuggled under warm blankets while Foster snoozed next to me. What a perfect way to wake up! If only there was time to hunker down for a while and spoon the dog!

If you don't have pets, I suggest you get one just for the snuggle factor. (If there's a hairy man in your bed, you can use him too, but I suggest the dog over the dude in most cases.) Regardless, I had to get up, rip myself out of my warm cocoon, and get ready for an interview. Emali had to be out of the house a few minutes before me, so there was a mad pants-and-bra dash to get dressed and get out the door. I made coffee before we had to go our separate ways, and that seems to be the thing that connects us in the morning. It's sort of our ritual to drink at least one cup of that hot, steaming goodness together before we run our separate ways for the day. The interview lasted 10 minutes, and it took me 20 minutes to get there.

And that's the way things go, I guess. The bright side is that I am now fully awake, and have accomplished many things thus far today, and will have more things done before noon. But right now, I'm sitting at the coffee shop working on my little Mac, sipping on steaming coffee, occasionally gazing out the bank of windows at this gloomy, rainy day. And you know what? It's wonderful! One of the girls who works here is reading Lolita, and I read it for the first time last summer. So of course, we had a mini book discussion, leading into Catcher in the Rye, and how much we love the characters as much as the plots, adding that both books are life and perspective-on-life changers. Books bring strangers together, and now I have two new friends, because we are all reading and drinking coffee on a rainy day in Austin.

Confucius say: Three days of rain makes one really appreciate the sun. Take that little nugget for what you will, but I think that, metaphorically speaking, there's some real truth to it.