the best of you

I am a restless kind of person, ergo, I have a restless kind of heart.

Can't stand waiting to do something when doing it right then and there would serve me just as well. Can't stand unfinished things. I plan for events six months from now and my friends make fun of me for it. I like all of my ducks in a row, from vacations, to work, to pretty much everything else. I hate walking/driving behind slow people; it makes me absolutely murderous. I pace. I lie down to go to sleep and pop up five minutes later because I need to tweak the tiniest thing on my webpage that no one will EVER notice besides me. I can't sit in a chair and talk on the phone, which is fine, since there aren't many people I can have a long phone conversation with. Usually all of my interactions are through Facebook Messenger. But the conversations I used to have at length usually took place on the sidewalk/street of my front yard. Rain was the only thing that kept me inside, and when that happened I could probably put about 12,000 steps on my Fitbit. Back and forth, from kitchen to living room, my dogs hurrying excitedly after me as if we're actually going somewhere. I live in a condo, so there's not much ground to cover.

Because of this, I have put a lot of miles on the sidewalk/street outside my front door. There are some conversations where I remember exactly where I was standing and exactly what was said. For a long time now, I've found it hard to go out there to walk the dogs. Especially at night. It would feel like the loneliest place on Earth, which is unfortunate, because my dogs pee. A lot. I step out there and my brain starts firing off all sorts of 'what if's' and 'why not's' and 'what happeneds?' and before you know it I'm a puddle of emotions in the middle of the street and absolutely furious at my dogs for not pissing more quickly.

Last night I cautiously stepped out onto my front porch to feel the 'wind' from this horrific Tropical Storm (that was sarcasm, stick around long enough and you'll learn my ways) and I felt like someone had severed the sticky strings that had been gluing me to the muck of the Earth, strings which, until now, I had only been halfheartedly trying to cut. I looked out at my yard and no longer saw ghosts haunting it. I accepted that I would probably always feel a twinge of something when I walked out there, but I wouldn't have that empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. And the wind blew and somehow I knew that I was going to be okay, no matter what I might feel tomorrow, or in fifteen minutes, or in three years. I think that I've always known deep down that I was going to be okay, but I have a restless nature, ergo, a restless kind of heart.

Unfortunately, the problem with all of this Type A-ness is that I get frustrated when the world doesn't move as fast as I need it to. When I want to be done with something, I want to be done with it. Cut, dry, print, move on. However, the part of me that is evidently possessed by some psychopathic estrogen monster insists, nay, demands! that I blow things wildly out of proportion, think endlessly about things/people that do me no good, attach meaningless relevance to the teensiest, tiniest things, and never. let. go. of. it. It took me almost TEN freaking YEARS to get over my first love, though at the end there I was clinging more onto habit than to actual emotion. Of course, as a younger me, I was ten times worse than I am now. I used to pain shop the fuck out of myself. What's pain shopping? When you know something's going to hurt you if you go and look at it/read it/engage it in any sort of way, and you do it anyway because well you're just fucking stupid. I did most of my long-term damage to myself, and I'll admit that. The breakup laid the foundation, but I built the fucking house of pain on it. By the end of almost ten years, that son of a bitch looked like the Playboy Mansion. And then all of a sudden, one day, I just said...you know what? Fuck this place. Note's too big, there's too much room to make mistakes, and it's goddamn lonely in here. Peace out.

Well, I still build houses. I can't help but to admit that. I think we all do.

I don't pain shop, though. After a certain amount of time, no matter how you feel about yourself, you have to stop hurting you. Quit hurting the baby. The baby is you. The baby is the insecure, vulnerable mass of innocence that some of us still have. You keep on fucking with yourself, and you're going to end up totally screwed. It is all too easy to do it. Someone doesn't love you, or doesn't love you enough, and you think it's your fault. Why not me? Why not you? Why THAT person? I do it constantly to myself. Why am I chasing red when green is better? What's wrong with me? Why can't I let go? Why can't I just be DONE when I'm really done, when the sensible part of my heart has had enough? Why does everything on this Earth remind me of things that I WANT TO FORGET? Is it all just some fucked up test to stretch my resolve? AGHHHHHHHHHHHH! Most of the time, I feel sixteen again, with the only difference is that my body is telling me it wants to make a baby, which means new and terrifying hormones and emotions are having it out with my common sense, of which I have precious little. Since 2001, I've spent a great portion of time wishing I was not a girl. I'm not good at being a girl; I wouldn't even know where to start.

But despite all of this emotional chow-chow, I'm proud of myself. I'm not hurting the baby. I might overthink, but I don't go looking for more things to heap on top of my ouchie sundae. I don't grab the frying pan. I don't stand in the middle of the fire just because I'm tired of being cold. Sometimes you have to take a break and lay the hell off of yourself. Sometimes what people do to you have more to do with what's wrong with them than what's wrong with you. About that, you can do nothing, but what they do, or did, or will do, doesn't mean a fucking thing when it comes to how the fuck you are gonna get through this world. It's time to spend less time worrying about people's chickenshit bullshit and start thinking about how we are going to get through the next few years without the hoverboards from Back to the Future. That's real shit.

I reread all of that inspirational sgjsgksjdf and I sound like I need to drown myself in a bathtub before I turn into a Powderpuff Girl.

-Rae

I've got another confession my friend I'm no fool I'm getting tired of starting again Somewhere new

'Best Of You', Foo Fighters