I write in this because my head is full of bees.
Am I really ever happy, you might ask? If you've read these past entries, you might be thinking to yourself-"What a miserable, dramatic bitch." Well, you're not thinking anything I haven't accused myself of, and believe me, no one is more tired of me than I am.
But the truth is, plenty makes me happy. And the best part about those things is that they are little things-bacon that collapses deliciously in my mouth, the beautiful decay of a cemetery, low tide on a beach at night. My nephew's smile, his hugs, the way I feel when I get a good shot with my camera, the way my fingers tingle and tell me I'm onto something. The presence of certain people. The absence of others. A book I haven't read in awhile, feeling fresh and clean out of a shower. Grits. Money in my bank account, an empty day in front of me, and a gas tank marked full. The warmth in my chest when someone says they miss me.
I'm angry, yes. I'm certainly frustrated. But I'd rather be both of those then to be confused. Lately that's all I've felt, and it makes me angry. It makes me frustrated, because it's a problem I can fix, but not without heavy consequences. Not just for myself, but for others, too. I don't think of myself as a writer anymore, because when I do write, I end up sounding like this-helpless and ridiculous and hopelessly Black Veil Brides or Fall Out Boy or some other whiny 00s band. On the other hand-nobody ever got sucked into a book that was full of happiness and smiles. You think anyone ever called Hemingway an emo pussy? I'm far from Hemingway. I just keep having thoughts and condemning myself for them.
If you're unhappy, do something about it.
This is what I always imagine people thinking when I talk about things that bug me. I wake up the next morning and I hate myself for telling them. I forget that nobody can go through this life without some sort of help. But then, we're all responsible for helping ourselves in the end. It's the hardest thing to do, because it does not come naturally. You have to bully your inner self into growing a pair, you have to tell them that on the other side of that fence, there is a mattress somewhere down below. You have to ignore the voice that tells you that there may be a mattress, but there's also a few iron spikes to hit on the way down, and by the time you hit the mattress, it won't make a difference whether it's there or not.
I know that the things that cause me pain or confusion are easily outweighed by the things that cause me joy. I am slowly trying to pull myself back up to my feet. Little things. Like feeling better about what I eat by eating grapes instead of jalapeno chips. Like hiding certain people on Messenger when their name causes me too much stress. Walking away from an argument when I know I'm too angry to respond sensibly. Getting myself out of the house when it presses too close on me. I spend a good deal of my weekends usually standing in the middle of a cemetery, smelling New Orleans around me, trying to breathe as much as I can through the humidity. At that moment, it doesn't matter if it's 100 plus degrees outside and the air is like a soup. It doesn't matter if I get any pictures, if I've seen everything there is to see. Somehow surrounded by all that death and decay helps me realize that there were lives far worse then mine, and some better then mine, and we all end up in the same place no matter what. And it sustains me for a while. Not forever. Usually just until the next time, but that's okay. With every mile I put behind me on the way there and on the way back, my worries and my hurts fall away.
-Rae