A Post With No Name

 It feels good to be back on the blog, but it is bittersweet. It seems I really do need to stop dreaming and start DOING. 

My new therapist says I should inquire at Daytona State College about career guidance. “You went to college, so you are a smart girl after all,” she says. Not addressing the severe anxiety and depression I am experiencing; my psych says I should just stay on my current meds. Great. My roommate says I make him nervous, and I need to “get a life.” Great. I went to the therapist because of that statement, a verdict that makes me more hopeless than motivated. 

I could keep up the writing, but I will just write myself into a snowballed rabbit hole. The only silver lining is the humor. I thought I was a “sky full of stars,” when really I’m a crazily manic girl with a bad cigarette habit. I thought this blog was proof that I am a sane sober person, and as I type these words I feel key tapping bursts of joy. Every joke and metaphor inspires me, yet spins me farther into the illusion: my life is a joke, and the big metaphor that is life I will never figure out; that big epiphany taunts me, like im a donkey chasing a carrot. I like puzzles, like crosswords, I like figuring things out, I like finding things (my nana says I have “ojos preciosos”). 

I remember the uncle from Little Miss Sunshine who told his teenage nephew, something like, “these are the prime suffering years of your life. Embrace it. All the great writers and philosophers flourished with suffering.” How profound, and how sick, and how true. Idealistic and romantic? Maybe we don’t need all the bullshit pain. Maybe you’re great cause you’re you and you’re normal, and you never crashed your plane. Keep flying high. Just read bad news in the papers, and read people like me who spin grief into gold. And never look deeper inwards…because there’s nothing there. Journey to Nowhere. I can journal to nowhere.

My psych said the only person in history who willed themself to die was the Indian Crazy Horse, who willed himself to die and was dead in three days (after he’d been captured). I might be crazy, but I’m not a Native American with a significant name, and I’m not bonded with the universe. I do believe in magic and miracles, and saving grace and medicine, and put all my faith in these stimulants. I believe in a thing called love, but I have an addictive personality, so that is not good for me (or others). “How can anyone love a pebble in their shoe?” (Ever After). I believe in writing, but my brain has betrayed me.

Here’s a toast to all the beautiful writing you and I will never see. Se la vie. Ciao.

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