I'm just updating to let you know that I have both a job and an apartment. I'll be working for a wonderful family as a nanny. It sounds like such a pud job, but there is so much that goes into it. I'll be hanging out with a four and a half year old girl who already has more working knowledge than I do about the connectedness of our ecosystems to our daily life. I just hope I can keep up! She's passionate about saving the coral, and the sea turtles, and the earth in general. She told me about manatees on the way to school this morning and her facts are well researched and solid.
The family is so loving in their approach to everything, and it does my heart good to be around people who just bring light into the world in the way they do. I'm in training with the previous nanny who'se music career has taken off and will get to fly solo later this week.
I'm definitely suffering from an excess of homeless love, so I'm excited to have a unit to put some of that love and energy into on a daily basis. I'll also be cooking some. Hopefully they'll be as patient with as my own family was this summer as I stumble through new recipes.
There is still some paperwork that needs to get banged out for the apartment, but I get the keys October 1 and my stuff will follow at an undetermined time! I'm almost there...
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Seattle!
So...I'm here. Physically in the city, referring to it as home, and calling it mine. I drove up. Spent two days in a car by myself with nothing but my iPod to depend on as reception is fuzzy in Utah, Idaho, and Oregon.
This will be short, just an announcement of my occupation of the city. Job and apartment are the next things to find. I'm sitting here with my fingers crossed and a ball of nervous excitement in my stomach.
Above all, I have faith that it will work out the way it is supposed to. And that it'll be good.
This will be short, just an announcement of my occupation of the city. Job and apartment are the next things to find. I'm sitting here with my fingers crossed and a ball of nervous excitement in my stomach.
Above all, I have faith that it will work out the way it is supposed to. And that it'll be good.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
sigh
Sleep is not my forte.
I lie awake and think of all the things before me. I'm definitely not deluded into thinking that my life is so much more difficult than anyone else. I just have big things going on that alternately terrify and delight me.
I like to joke that I'm exactly where I planned on being at 24; homeless, jobless, and divorced. What little girl didn't grow up dreaming of a failed marriage without the ability to make it a solid year? Proof that your instincts know more than you ever give them credit for, I suppose. It sounds silly, but I always knew I was bigger than that marriage, I just thought I could carry it, see it through for a few more years.
A lot of people ask me what I've learned from the whole experience. I'm still sorting it out, but here are a few things I've been able to pinpoint.
I learned that I have never known myself. It sounds so cheesy, but twelve weeks ago, I couldn't tell you what I wanted to do with my life other than a general outline of vague goals. Part of that was me not letting myself want anything. I had a career and that was apparently enough. I was on the back burner. I hated who I was when I couldn't dream. I hated that I couldn't stand up and tell anyone what I needed. I hated that I couldn't tell myself.
I learned that I have never been completely loved. That is a sad, sad thing. I always held on to the illusion that I was. I believe he loved me as much as he could, but it was limited and unfulfilling. People who love each other don't lie. People who love each other don't do so many things...
I learned that both of us had failures leading up to this. I am definitely not blameless and it doesn't do to try to match it out blow for blow. I need to accept my shortcomings and take it in stride. I'll do it better from now on.
I learned we loved each other. But not enough. Not enough that we'd go crazy if the other wasn't in the world. Not enough that we'd give up whatever we wanted to make the other person happy. Not enough never to ask that the other person give up anything. Not enough that we felt safe with honesty.
I'm not bitter. I'm just sad about it all. And thankful in a strange way. I'm only 24 and already I'm starting my life over. I've been reborn and given a second chance to make good on what I've been given and what I've been sent to do.
There have been a few key operatives who've helped me see the way and I'm so thankful to them for their love, acceptance, advice, and strength through the whole damn messy business.
It is a terrible thing, but right now most of the time I'm really having fun. I'm in my element out here alone in space. And I've started to take care of things that will set me up to be successful the second time around.
I'm just taking it one day at a time with confidence that tomorrow will come.
I lie awake and think of all the things before me. I'm definitely not deluded into thinking that my life is so much more difficult than anyone else. I just have big things going on that alternately terrify and delight me.
I like to joke that I'm exactly where I planned on being at 24; homeless, jobless, and divorced. What little girl didn't grow up dreaming of a failed marriage without the ability to make it a solid year? Proof that your instincts know more than you ever give them credit for, I suppose. It sounds silly, but I always knew I was bigger than that marriage, I just thought I could carry it, see it through for a few more years.
A lot of people ask me what I've learned from the whole experience. I'm still sorting it out, but here are a few things I've been able to pinpoint.
I learned that I have never known myself. It sounds so cheesy, but twelve weeks ago, I couldn't tell you what I wanted to do with my life other than a general outline of vague goals. Part of that was me not letting myself want anything. I had a career and that was apparently enough. I was on the back burner. I hated who I was when I couldn't dream. I hated that I couldn't stand up and tell anyone what I needed. I hated that I couldn't tell myself.
I learned that I have never been completely loved. That is a sad, sad thing. I always held on to the illusion that I was. I believe he loved me as much as he could, but it was limited and unfulfilling. People who love each other don't lie. People who love each other don't do so many things...
I learned that both of us had failures leading up to this. I am definitely not blameless and it doesn't do to try to match it out blow for blow. I need to accept my shortcomings and take it in stride. I'll do it better from now on.
I learned we loved each other. But not enough. Not enough that we'd go crazy if the other wasn't in the world. Not enough that we'd give up whatever we wanted to make the other person happy. Not enough never to ask that the other person give up anything. Not enough that we felt safe with honesty.
I'm not bitter. I'm just sad about it all. And thankful in a strange way. I'm only 24 and already I'm starting my life over. I've been reborn and given a second chance to make good on what I've been given and what I've been sent to do.
There have been a few key operatives who've helped me see the way and I'm so thankful to them for their love, acceptance, advice, and strength through the whole damn messy business.
It is a terrible thing, but right now most of the time I'm really having fun. I'm in my element out here alone in space. And I've started to take care of things that will set me up to be successful the second time around.
I'm just taking it one day at a time with confidence that tomorrow will come.
A dichotomy
Every night before going to bed I go through a routine. Most of you can identify with this and those of you who can’t might be pagans on a different plane of existence. Not higher, different.
I wash my face, brush my teeth and take two pills. Normal and boring in every sense of the word. When I am honest with myself, I realize that I am much more domesticated than I ever planned on being at this age.
For example; I cook with an apron, and can’t imagine any other way. Aprons are so convenient, especially for people who dislike being beholden to a dish rag. I am a hands-on cook. I’m not afraid to say that if you’ve eaten anything I’ve cooked or baked in the last fifteen years, chances are my finger was in it at some point. Fingers are so sensitive to the nuances of temperature and consistency in a way that a thermometer and a bamboo spoon, while invaluable tools, just can’t emulate. Also, a dab of something is all my (self-taught) taste buds need to know what needs more salt or cumin or cinnamon. As a rule everything could always use an extra pinch of ginger. I’d eat ginger on a shoe.
So the apron is a perfect compromise for a mobile, dynamic cook with her finger on the pulse of the kitchen. Basically what I’m saying is that if I didn’t wear an apron, I’d wipe my hands on my pants.
They say it is important to get into a nightly routine because it will help you be able to know when it is time for bed. As a friend to many new mothers and a special education teacher, I’ve had extensive discussions about the importance of routine in a child’s life.
I like my routine. People in general are creatures of habit and this nightly routine is a portable comfort I can take with me no matter where I go. All I need is my giraffe print bag and a functional sink. A cup isn’t even necessary as I can use my hands to collect water.
Earlier this year, I decided that I should try to take a multivitamin. I’ve been borderline anemic for as long as I can remember and as a poor-ish worker of two jobs with a husband who was fundamentally opposed to all vegetables that weren’t baby carrots or fried potatoes, I didn’t invest much in leafy green iron rich additions to our meals. It is pretty hard to go through bag after bag of spinach and spring mix by yourself. Eventually the salad conquers you by going bad before you can possibly finish it, and ends up getting thrown out in a slimy, stinky mess a week later.
The first multivitamin I thought of was Flintstone’s chewables. But being a career woman of 24, I thought maybe it was time to take the next step. I remember my parents taking Centrum, but I refused on the basis that it was for old people and I’m still a spring chicken. I went to the drugstore and was waylaid by options. I tried to look casual and contemplative while I pulled bottle after bottle, read the labels, and tried not to be too astounded at the price.
I settled on Women’s Once-A-Day. It seemed safe since I had heard of it and it was relatively high in iron. The large bottle with the orange label had to last me quite a while, too. All pills should be taken with at least eight ounces of water to properly wash it down, but these pills are at least three times a normal size, so a larger glass was required. My father, incidentally, a physician, calls these horse pills. It’s an industry term.
I pride myself on my strong stomach. I have very rarely felt nauseous when confronted with overwhelming life situations or new food or drugs of any sort. I can take antibiotics with a glass of milk and have no problems. I’ve literally been taking medicine for over three quarters of my life. I’m a nerdy bookworm with asthma. It never crossed my mind that medicine might actually make me feel worse.
Day 1 of the experiment, I breakfasted on peanut butter toast and washed the pill down with a large glass of milk. To say it was a rough day is an understatement. About half an hour into school, my stomach just started to ache. Every time I moved, my whole midsection reminded me that it was there and oft ignored. I was cranky, which in turn made the kids cranky, and nobody had any fun.
I thought maybe I hadn’t eaten enough, so at lunchtime, I had an extra handful of crackers and made it a point to drink more water than usual. This just resulted in me having to visit the little girl’s room all afternoon to void my bladder. Thankfully, it was one of my slow days and there were breaks between kiddos. After school, I went straight home, lay down, and made the husband cook. Which meant he ordered pizza or made macaroni.
I thought maybe the breakfast meal wasn’t tough enough to buffer the effects of so many nutrients chorusing through my system, so Day 2 I took the multi-v at dinnertime. I made sure to cook something substantial; hamburgers ought to be solid enough to offset any ill effects. But by bedtime, I was curled up in a ball unable to sleep and whining to deaf ears that had to leave the house at 3:30 am.
After a few more days of similar experiences, I gave up on being properly fortified and went back to my previous state of malnourishment sans vitamin. It was a simple time.
I didn’t really give it another thought until one of the women who worked at the school mentioned prenatal vitamins. She is a forty-something mother of two who spent a lot of years working as a nurse. She takes a prenatal vitamin every day and highly recommends them to every woman she knows. Elixir of life or something.
Not wanting to go out and spend money on something else my body would soundly reject, she offered to give me a week’s supply and see how I fared. The next day she came in with seven nondescript yellow pills. They were quite a bit smaller than the others and looked almost friendly. I looked at those pills and believed they wanted me to be better.
I debated for a while, and decided that pm was a fine time to take the pills as I have already established the aforementioned nightly routine. The week went by without pill related incident and I’ve been taking them ever since. Like the nurse before me, I plug them to interested parties and have been known to push a few just to get you hooked.
It does not escape my highly developed sense of irony, however, that every night, this now single woman washes her face, brushes her teeth, and takes a birth control pill and a prenatal vitamin. I sometimes marvel at the conflicting messages I’m sending my own body and wonder how on earth I’ll ever be able to communicate clearly with anyone.
For now, I am contented with the ironic jumble that is life and do what I need to get through until tomorrow and for the long haul.
I wash my face, brush my teeth and take two pills. Normal and boring in every sense of the word. When I am honest with myself, I realize that I am much more domesticated than I ever planned on being at this age.
For example; I cook with an apron, and can’t imagine any other way. Aprons are so convenient, especially for people who dislike being beholden to a dish rag. I am a hands-on cook. I’m not afraid to say that if you’ve eaten anything I’ve cooked or baked in the last fifteen years, chances are my finger was in it at some point. Fingers are so sensitive to the nuances of temperature and consistency in a way that a thermometer and a bamboo spoon, while invaluable tools, just can’t emulate. Also, a dab of something is all my (self-taught) taste buds need to know what needs more salt or cumin or cinnamon. As a rule everything could always use an extra pinch of ginger. I’d eat ginger on a shoe.
So the apron is a perfect compromise for a mobile, dynamic cook with her finger on the pulse of the kitchen. Basically what I’m saying is that if I didn’t wear an apron, I’d wipe my hands on my pants.
They say it is important to get into a nightly routine because it will help you be able to know when it is time for bed. As a friend to many new mothers and a special education teacher, I’ve had extensive discussions about the importance of routine in a child’s life.
I like my routine. People in general are creatures of habit and this nightly routine is a portable comfort I can take with me no matter where I go. All I need is my giraffe print bag and a functional sink. A cup isn’t even necessary as I can use my hands to collect water.
Earlier this year, I decided that I should try to take a multivitamin. I’ve been borderline anemic for as long as I can remember and as a poor-ish worker of two jobs with a husband who was fundamentally opposed to all vegetables that weren’t baby carrots or fried potatoes, I didn’t invest much in leafy green iron rich additions to our meals. It is pretty hard to go through bag after bag of spinach and spring mix by yourself. Eventually the salad conquers you by going bad before you can possibly finish it, and ends up getting thrown out in a slimy, stinky mess a week later.
The first multivitamin I thought of was Flintstone’s chewables. But being a career woman of 24, I thought maybe it was time to take the next step. I remember my parents taking Centrum, but I refused on the basis that it was for old people and I’m still a spring chicken. I went to the drugstore and was waylaid by options. I tried to look casual and contemplative while I pulled bottle after bottle, read the labels, and tried not to be too astounded at the price.
I settled on Women’s Once-A-Day. It seemed safe since I had heard of it and it was relatively high in iron. The large bottle with the orange label had to last me quite a while, too. All pills should be taken with at least eight ounces of water to properly wash it down, but these pills are at least three times a normal size, so a larger glass was required. My father, incidentally, a physician, calls these horse pills. It’s an industry term.
I pride myself on my strong stomach. I have very rarely felt nauseous when confronted with overwhelming life situations or new food or drugs of any sort. I can take antibiotics with a glass of milk and have no problems. I’ve literally been taking medicine for over three quarters of my life. I’m a nerdy bookworm with asthma. It never crossed my mind that medicine might actually make me feel worse.
Day 1 of the experiment, I breakfasted on peanut butter toast and washed the pill down with a large glass of milk. To say it was a rough day is an understatement. About half an hour into school, my stomach just started to ache. Every time I moved, my whole midsection reminded me that it was there and oft ignored. I was cranky, which in turn made the kids cranky, and nobody had any fun.
I thought maybe I hadn’t eaten enough, so at lunchtime, I had an extra handful of crackers and made it a point to drink more water than usual. This just resulted in me having to visit the little girl’s room all afternoon to void my bladder. Thankfully, it was one of my slow days and there were breaks between kiddos. After school, I went straight home, lay down, and made the husband cook. Which meant he ordered pizza or made macaroni.
I thought maybe the breakfast meal wasn’t tough enough to buffer the effects of so many nutrients chorusing through my system, so Day 2 I took the multi-v at dinnertime. I made sure to cook something substantial; hamburgers ought to be solid enough to offset any ill effects. But by bedtime, I was curled up in a ball unable to sleep and whining to deaf ears that had to leave the house at 3:30 am.
After a few more days of similar experiences, I gave up on being properly fortified and went back to my previous state of malnourishment sans vitamin. It was a simple time.
I didn’t really give it another thought until one of the women who worked at the school mentioned prenatal vitamins. She is a forty-something mother of two who spent a lot of years working as a nurse. She takes a prenatal vitamin every day and highly recommends them to every woman she knows. Elixir of life or something.
Not wanting to go out and spend money on something else my body would soundly reject, she offered to give me a week’s supply and see how I fared. The next day she came in with seven nondescript yellow pills. They were quite a bit smaller than the others and looked almost friendly. I looked at those pills and believed they wanted me to be better.
I debated for a while, and decided that pm was a fine time to take the pills as I have already established the aforementioned nightly routine. The week went by without pill related incident and I’ve been taking them ever since. Like the nurse before me, I plug them to interested parties and have been known to push a few just to get you hooked.
It does not escape my highly developed sense of irony, however, that every night, this now single woman washes her face, brushes her teeth, and takes a birth control pill and a prenatal vitamin. I sometimes marvel at the conflicting messages I’m sending my own body and wonder how on earth I’ll ever be able to communicate clearly with anyone.
For now, I am contented with the ironic jumble that is life and do what I need to get through until tomorrow and for the long haul.
Friday, July 25, 2008
News, or something like it
Clarkdale, AZ is less than a booming metropolis. It is more or less a neighborhood in Cottonwood which appears to surround it on three sides. As both are small, very small, there is only one newspaper which serves the area and that only comes out three times a week. The Verde Valley Independent knows news is hard to come by, so they've given up on filling the rag daily and berate us with fluff and weekly happenings as little as possible.
Today, on page 2 (coveted for it of its use of color) two photos and a caption were prominently displayed in a quarter page sidebar titled "The Drive-Through is the Other Direction." Already we are off to a roaring start. Enthralled? Let's read on.
"An older woman drove into the Wells Fargo bank Wednesday...literally. The woman entered a parking area, but apparently missed the brake on the vehicle while trying to avoid another vehicle. [I am assuming it was parked] Her 1979 Chevrolet slammed into some landscaping and punched a hole into the bank exterior wall with her vehicle. The 89-year-old driver was not seriously hurt in the accident but she suffered a bump on the head and was examined at the Verde Valley Medical Center as a precaution."
Let me be the first to commend Philip Wright on his thorough investigative journalism and excessive use of the word "vehicle." Never have I read anything quite like it.
The best thing about this is that it is not an isolated incident. You may be aware that Arizona is a great place to retire. It is hot all the time, so you won't feel cold even when your circulation is shot. And this is only one of the perks. "Older" people from everywhere come down here to glue their noses to their steering wheels and drive 20 miles an hour no matter the posted speed limit. And they run into things at least once every two months.
Memorably last fall, a man who was suffering from chest pains drove into the side of his doctor's office. I'll give you three guesses as to why...
Today, on page 2 (coveted for it of its use of color) two photos and a caption were prominently displayed in a quarter page sidebar titled "The Drive-Through is the Other Direction." Already we are off to a roaring start. Enthralled? Let's read on.
"An older woman drove into the Wells Fargo bank Wednesday...literally. The woman entered a parking area, but apparently missed the brake on the vehicle while trying to avoid another vehicle. [I am assuming it was parked] Her 1979 Chevrolet slammed into some landscaping and punched a hole into the bank exterior wall with her vehicle. The 89-year-old driver was not seriously hurt in the accident but she suffered a bump on the head and was examined at the Verde Valley Medical Center as a precaution."
Let me be the first to commend Philip Wright on his thorough investigative journalism and excessive use of the word "vehicle." Never have I read anything quite like it.
The best thing about this is that it is not an isolated incident. You may be aware that Arizona is a great place to retire. It is hot all the time, so you won't feel cold even when your circulation is shot. And this is only one of the perks. "Older" people from everywhere come down here to glue their noses to their steering wheels and drive 20 miles an hour no matter the posted speed limit. And they run into things at least once every two months.
Memorably last fall, a man who was suffering from chest pains drove into the side of his doctor's office. I'll give you three guesses as to why...
Friday, July 18, 2008
public enemy No. 1 & recommendations
I hate insurance. It is without a doubt my least favorite adult thing. And that includes cleaning bathrooms and paying rent and balancing checkbooks...
Insurance companies have so many ways of getting around actually covering you, especially when you really need it. Even talking to countless people and sorting through forests worth of documents, dates never match up, coverage is not clear, and the nice women at the other end are never helpful enough. I'm smarter than the average bear and it seriously pisses me off that I can't figure this crap out.
I understood all the wording in the legal paperwork I've filled out lately, why then, does insurance still bask in its shroud of mystery? Grrr... (all I can do is cross my fingers and not get hurt doing anything)
On a more positive note...
Those who know me, have experienced my love of makeup. I don't know what it is, but I am enamored of basically the whole industry.
For those of you who know me, you are also aware that I wear much less of it than others who proclaim to love the stuff. I don't even wear it to work every day. I am as erratic in my donning of makeup as insurance is in their coverage.
My friend Danielle once said that I approach makeup as I do most everything else in my life. I walk down the aisle and if it catches my eye I buy it and wear it. It was a disjointed and schizophrenic road to finding things I liked and looked good in.
I've come to accept that I have a little Drag Queen in me and it is expressed through my love of garish eyeshadow. (moment of relish) But I've also come to accept that it is not always appropriate to display my affection outwardly... sigh.
It must be said, however, that nothing brings out my inner diva like mascara. I am rarely seen without it. I have probably gone through literally a hundred tubes of it since middle school. Back then, it was colored; silver, orange, green. Delicious.
Now my mascara means business. The blacker the better. And my new favorite for length, definition, volume, and (shockingly) overall lash health is Smashbox Bionic Mascara. So named because it claims to have ionic technology. Something about positively charged ions in the mascara and negatively charged ions in the friction of applying it. Opposites attract and voila, fierce. All I know is my lashes have never looked better and I highly recommend it to everyone.
Insurance companies have so many ways of getting around actually covering you, especially when you really need it. Even talking to countless people and sorting through forests worth of documents, dates never match up, coverage is not clear, and the nice women at the other end are never helpful enough. I'm smarter than the average bear and it seriously pisses me off that I can't figure this crap out.
I understood all the wording in the legal paperwork I've filled out lately, why then, does insurance still bask in its shroud of mystery? Grrr... (all I can do is cross my fingers and not get hurt doing anything)
On a more positive note...Those who know me, have experienced my love of makeup. I don't know what it is, but I am enamored of basically the whole industry.
For those of you who know me, you are also aware that I wear much less of it than others who proclaim to love the stuff. I don't even wear it to work every day. I am as erratic in my donning of makeup as insurance is in their coverage.
My friend Danielle once said that I approach makeup as I do most everything else in my life. I walk down the aisle and if it catches my eye I buy it and wear it. It was a disjointed and schizophrenic road to finding things I liked and looked good in.
I've come to accept that I have a little Drag Queen in me and it is expressed through my love of garish eyeshadow. (moment of relish) But I've also come to accept that it is not always appropriate to display my affection outwardly... sigh.
It must be said, however, that nothing brings out my inner diva like mascara. I am rarely seen without it. I have probably gone through literally a hundred tubes of it since middle school. Back then, it was colored; silver, orange, green. Delicious.
Now my mascara means business. The blacker the better. And my new favorite for length, definition, volume, and (shockingly) overall lash health is Smashbox Bionic Mascara. So named because it claims to have ionic technology. Something about positively charged ions in the mascara and negatively charged ions in the friction of applying it. Opposites attract and voila, fierce. All I know is my lashes have never looked better and I highly recommend it to everyone.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Not a pretty girl
Some of my CDs are gone. Left in Kansas City, and I am wondering whether it is worth it to try to get them back.
I have tried to keep moving forward and most of the time I do well, but the little things still trip me up. I don't have my things in any semblance of order and I don't like that. For those of you who've seen some of my other rooms, I know you're finding it hard to believe I am hating having no order, but this is different. Every time I try to find something new, it is at least a 15 minute ordeal. Some days I just want to throw it all out into the middle of the desert and start from scratch.
That's basically what I've been trying to do with myself. Unfortunately it isn't that easy. There is a whole world of people out there whom I love and many of them feel the same about me. It makes me feel so safe. I could go to any region of the country and find friendly faces, homes, sofas. I love it.
If it wasn't for my family, I'd probably be having a great time here. I'm not miserable by any counts, but they are expecting things from me again. Favors, repayment of sorts. I don't want to be indebted to them any more that I have to be because I know they'll call it in at an inconvenient time. I love my family, but I love them better from a distance. It's not like I only see them as they truly are when I'm here, but I definitely only experience them as they truly are when they're around. I don't fit into the dynamic anymore. I've been gone for six years.
I really want to take this opportunity, situation, whatever to do something for myself. I've not made many selfish decisions and I'm relishing the thought of saying "thanks, but no thanks" to the people that love me best, but know me least at this point in my life. Now all I have to do, is raise enough money for them to take me seriously when I do.
I have tried to keep moving forward and most of the time I do well, but the little things still trip me up. I don't have my things in any semblance of order and I don't like that. For those of you who've seen some of my other rooms, I know you're finding it hard to believe I am hating having no order, but this is different. Every time I try to find something new, it is at least a 15 minute ordeal. Some days I just want to throw it all out into the middle of the desert and start from scratch.
That's basically what I've been trying to do with myself. Unfortunately it isn't that easy. There is a whole world of people out there whom I love and many of them feel the same about me. It makes me feel so safe. I could go to any region of the country and find friendly faces, homes, sofas. I love it.
If it wasn't for my family, I'd probably be having a great time here. I'm not miserable by any counts, but they are expecting things from me again. Favors, repayment of sorts. I don't want to be indebted to them any more that I have to be because I know they'll call it in at an inconvenient time. I love my family, but I love them better from a distance. It's not like I only see them as they truly are when I'm here, but I definitely only experience them as they truly are when they're around. I don't fit into the dynamic anymore. I've been gone for six years.
I really want to take this opportunity, situation, whatever to do something for myself. I've not made many selfish decisions and I'm relishing the thought of saying "thanks, but no thanks" to the people that love me best, but know me least at this point in my life. Now all I have to do, is raise enough money for them to take me seriously when I do.
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