Revel in the time away from your coworkers this weekend. In a 40-hour work world that consumes your life, you never know when you may get a moment of solitude again.
Scary thought, right?
Times really are changing. I don’t know when the job market became so competitive, but it has. It’s truly depressing, and I guess that is why we are on the verge of a depression. When depressions happen, no one can become the things they want to. Teachers can’t become teachers and librarians can’t become librarians. Everything starts to destruct. I wish the economy was better. I wish we didn’t have to be so educated and that money could be found everywhere. But I’m too old for wishes.
I didn’t think the government shutdown would be lasting this long, but it has. I was only expecting the government to be shut down for a day, not the seven that it has been.
And why? So politicians can throw around big words, big dreams, try to shoot down Obamacare, try to gain control. Control, control, control. It feels like everyone is so much more about control as we all start to lose our jobs, houses, and lives…
I think my neighbor is losing his house. Another lady at work is on the verge. Everyone is on the verge of a huge universal shift it seems lately. People are either having babies, getting married, moving away, or profoundly changing something in their lives.
I get the feeling that the whole universe, right now, is in flux. Anyone else feel that way?
I’m reviving my favorite comic book character today, Paul the Penguin. I had invented him in high school, and had really drug his character out long and hard, but after a while, Paul was a little too depressing for me.
Since I am now working under a pen name, I find it a lot easier to express myself through this penguin’s anger/upsetness about the business/corporate/capitalistic world. I think I will do more of him.
<3 He makes me happy. <3
Once I realized that I would be raising a little girl in the world, my thoughts about everything have changed. A woman at work recently made a comment to me about my acne scars, and how bad they are, and how I really need to make sure when my daughter grows up that she doesn’t have acne scars either. This was, after she wouldn’t stop talking about her $1600 vacuum and how her husband is shopping around for a Mercedes Benz.
After she said this, I tried to think to myself, “What will I tell my daughter when she comes home from the playground and says another girl called her ‘ugly’?”
I thought about it. The truth is that when people say caddy things about you usually when their own life is under attack. This woman at work always comes in pale, red lips, smelling a bit of alcohol. I remember the kid from middle school who used to call me fat. As I grew older, I realized that he was probably upset with everything because he didn’t have any father around. He made fun of everyone, was mean to everyone. It’s usually a defense mechanism. People are mean to other people as a defense mechanism to deflect what’s really going on with them. Happy people don’t say mean things.
All any of us can do is just try to get through the day.
It’s been a while since I posted. It’s because I’ve been stressed. Part of me has started to think that writing this blogs has been sort of counter-intuitive. I have such a mind of a marketer. I am always trying to market my art, my vision, my….everything.
Do you all ever get tired of marketing yourself? Of walking down the hallways at work, hearing the busybodies say “Why aren’t you smiling?” “Smile, this is work!” Do you ever get tired of the those who want you to be on your best behavior, your bright-eyed busy-tailed smiling face, and when you respond with just a dreary “okay”, they scuttle away as though you have broken some foreign cultish code?
Sometimes I wished in some Scandinavian country. I bet they don’t smile as much in those countries. I wish I didn’t have to have my non-smiling face questioned.
I know I probably shouldn’t vent like this on my blog. It goes against what all the prominent bloggers say you should do. In order to gain an audience, you need to write about a similar thing everyday, you need to use certain keywords, you need to do guest posts.
What if I just don’t want to do any of that anymore?
I am thankful I have this hidden alias where I can vent about how I feel.
The internet scares me these days. Since I’ve become pregnant, I’ve harbored less of an interest to tell everyone on Facebook that I ate a Twix bar or that I’m going to an awesome party they aren’t invited to. Facebook has become just a place where everyone’s egos seem to echo through the vapid hallways of over exaggerated stereotypes, a classicism of perspectives, and venomous playground bully attitudes that have grown up to become the dysfunctional white-collared worker next to you. And the next thing you know, you see them posting how their kid is one of the most amazing flute players in the state of Alabama on Facebook, complete with a picture of chubby cheeked Jake holding a golden flute like a trophy of insensitivity that his family has awarded him during his short-lived survival in a dysfunctional nuclear family.
And that’s the majority of Americans. Over 75% of all Americans grow up in a dysfunctional home. It’s ill-willed to expect Jake to be even different. I mean, that alcoholic coworker next to you, who always comes in pale, smelling of gin, and ready to ask you why you can’t lose the 40 pounds they never gained, is the person who is raising the next generation of families. This white collared menace is happy to announce in the work hallways that they are a nihilist, they believe in nothing.
And then we wonder why America is on the brink of a major economic depression. We are a culture of ego-obsessed people trying to get everyone to believe that our Facebook pictures of parties and picnics truly means that we are happy. But when we pull our computer screens and skins back, all that we are able to see is this continual void that not even a new purse, a bottle of gin, a joint, or money can erase. The hole is omniscient throughout the seats of theaters and creates a stench throughout our highway streets. We travel in lined cars the way ants do, and when we are coming home from work, there are other human-ants waking up on the other side of the world, continuing the pattern. Go to work. Go to work. Get to work. Be at work. Do Work. Do Work. Go home. Go home. Eat. Sleep. Sleep. Wake up. Go to work.
How do the rest of you deal with the routine—or more so—how are the rest of you dealing with these vapid personalities who seem to think that the only way to eternal happiness and salvation is through a perfect size-3 body, flawless skin, and enough money to brag their way to feeling like their own identity can be substituted with something as silly as a dollar sign—-how do you all deal?
Because I don’t have any clue in the slightest how to.
Well, like was stated in the last post from others in the comments—never let your OBGYN give suggestions about the state of your brain. They studied OBGYN for a reason, and while my doctor may be brilliant at the business of birthing children, I think I will leave the brain tumor diagnosis to the experts.
My neurologist told me that my exam looked great. My chances of having a brain tumor are something like 1 in 100 or even 1 in 200, in other words, incredibly rare. Considering how good my neurology exam went, it’s more probable that I don’t have a brain tumor, and more likely that I have a genetic predisposition towards seizures. (My parents and brother have both had seizures).
Nothing brightens up your day more than knowing you probably don’t have a brain tumor. Don’t get me wrong, I still have to have an MRI, and while it’s possible, my neurologist seemed incredibly optimistic that everything was going to be okay.
Pregnancy is an interesting change in one’s body, that’s for sure. After my incident, I have learned that a lot of people have dormant issues that start to become more apparent with pregnancy. Some people have a disease that pops up that never had symptoms before, and some people get gray hair. Pregnancy is just a strange time for women. It’s hard to predict anything that could happen.
That seizure was the scariest event that has ever happened in my life. I still find myself wondering what would have happened if my husband hadn’t heard me scream at 3am that night. Even though I don’t remember screaming, I told him that I probably was screaming out to him because I knew what was about to happen. I probably knew that if I didn’t scream, he wouldn’t hear me, and who knows where I would have been by then…
Thank you for all the support, fellow writers. It’s scary to think about what would happen when life is suddenly taken away from you, makes me realize how selfish I have been and how I need to look beyond that selfishness. I need to be more thankful for the life that I do have.
Over the weekend, I had a seizure. I don’t remember how I got downstairs or anything, but the seizure left a huge dent in my kitchen wall downstairs.
Scary stuff. I mean, I should be scared, right? I ended up going to the ER too, but not because I was scared for me, but because I was scared for my baby. You see, I am pregnant. That’s truly why I haven’t posted in the last four months, there’s a bambino growing inside of me right now.
However, the events of this weekend have forced me to write on my blog again, especially under a fake name. I’m so scared and I need someone to talk to.
My husband is a wreck on the inside, but he is acting so positive on the outside. I can’t drive to work anymore, and so he has been helping me complete the 45-minute commute to work everyday. My dad, the other great guy in my life, is helping me get to my doctor’s appointments as long as I get him breakfast or lunch outta it.
I’ve never been so scared in my life. And to tell you the truth, I don’t feel like I have anywhere to turn but this silly blog. I’ve tried to tell myself that I would never write about my life, but the circumstances of my situation have been leading me to discuss them here.
My baby looks healthy, I think. When they did the ultrasound in the ER, my little one was in there, swimming in my belly. They didn’t tell me I may have a brain tumor at the ER.
My OBGYN told me I may have a brain tumor. I was hoping she would just tell me it was normal to have a seizure, that it had something to do with all the hormones surging through me, but instead she told me that it may be because I have a brain tumor.
“Brain tumor?” I have laughed.
“Brain tumor?” I have scoffed.
“Brain tumor?” I cried myself to sleep last night.
Please, for the love of God, have it not be a brain tumor. The incident brings me to closely to a prayer I had with God at the beginning of my pregnancy. I prayed that God would let this baby live. This is my third pregnancy, the other two ended in miscarriage. I prayed that God would let this child live. I told God I would give my life for this child, and I would, but I wasn’t expecting it by way of a brain tumor.
I can still feel the bruise on the back of my head from the seizure I had this weekend. All I want to do when I go home is sleep. I’m worried about my husband, keeping my job, and staying alive. I hope the neurologist has better news for me tomorrow.
Have you guys ever experienced a scare like this? Survive a terminal illness? Please share any of your stories. I’m so worried my future child won’t have a mother.
Astrology predictions sometimes tout that large life changes are in store for you. You squint your eyes, narrow your eyebrows, and wonder “Really? Is my life truly going to change for the better.”
We crave change. We live for change. Yet, when change comes, all we sometimes can feel is a slight speed bump in the path, a tiny deviation from the direction we were originally going.
What direction do you go next?
Go the direction that calls you. Let the future take you by your collar and pull you into the next phase and dimension of your life.
Even though it is summer, it feels like fall to me. The changes in the colorful lives of people seem to be going dormant for a winter that is not here. People are getting married, having children, moving away, making drastic changes in their lives.
As the changes start to occur, I try to remember that nothing is changing in this current moment.
I try to grab hold of that voice and try to follow it into the future, that future, that constant, divergent change I have been waiting for centuries.
Here is some exploration on a character I am working on:
There is nothing worse than wondering if the baby growing inside you is going to live or die. This tiny life exists, and sometimes, in a moment, its fleeting life disappears back into the oblivion, the vast ocean from which we also came before we were born, the same vast sea we will return to when we die.
Sometimes, when I think about having another miscarriage, when I think about having to lose my seventh child, my seventh pregnancy, I sometimes can only think about that black sea, ready to swim in it with all my children.
Let the blackness swallow me whole, I think.
The insidious thought is a stark contrast to the interior decorating I plans I have had for a baby room: white classic American style crib, baskets in a cube-like structures for easy to reach items like diapers or clothing, a literary themed nursery with Winnie the Pooh, Peter Rabbit, and the Cat in the Hat as my child’s cast of first time friends, and a draping curtain with Versailles fleur-de-lis printed symbols, as a tiny effort to add a classic and sophisticated flair to the child’s room, as though a nod or acknowledgement to the infant’s future adult taste in superior fashion, history, and any noteworthy intellectual aesthetic.
I’ve already imagined my child as an adult. I have, in the past, visualized them all into existence, even after they passed on to the other side, long before they have ever been born.
They never even breathed their first breath, and I remember their whole existence—first step, laugh, giggle—even when these moments never happened in reality.
Then where did they happen?
In a land, or place, or a time far away from now.
At one point, we were together, but now they are no longer here.
In the daytime, I encounter stressed out mothers with multiple children, pulling their hair out from their scalp, angry their children don’t put away their Legos, or stressed out because their daughters have been impregnated by men who they believe were never smart enough for their girl to begin with.
And yet, as I watch them complain about their merry-go-rounds of insanity, I cannot help but feel envious.
The older I get, the slower the merry-go-round goes. It is the same views as time goes on. The same perspective of life, after a while, becomes mucked up and delirious. Without sharing the other views of those young and old, it becomes a muted color on a teleprompter, like an emergency broadcast test just to see that the systems are working okay. And it’s back to the regular programming…
But for parents, their constant stress is an indication that life grows and lives and breathes around them in a myriad of ways that is indiscernible to those who have never shared with more than just a lover.
It’s this impeccable melody and horrendous skip on a vinyl record which makes it impossible to shake off.
How much can I ever really know?
What do you think?