Different than it used to be. Different than I thought it would be. Different than I expected it to be. Different than I wanted it to be. Different than I want it to be.
Maybe I’m having a mini-breakdown.
Meh. I don’t think so.
It’s just time to let some certain things go. People, thoughts, expectations, belongings.
Things can’t be forced into the mold in which you want to see them. Useless things cannot be forced to be useful.
As my mom would say:
You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.
I’ve started to get rid of every useless thing I own, clothes I never wear, ancient underwear with crotches partially chewed by my dog in anger, every book I got for free and have owned for years but never intend to read, tiny crap that somehow accumulates like a giant mystery, and people who need to be convinced to be in my life.
There’s a sense of urgency in this act of purging. What comes with it is the feeling that I need to get ready to go. Where I don’t know. But I find myself feeling both trapped and that I need to go somewhere and saying to myself something I heard my mom say so many times over the years. She always seemed to me so small and sad saying it: “Something needs to change.” I know now that she said it when she was feeling at her wit’s end, powerless or helpless.
But that’s all she would say. Most of the time I didn’t get to see how she resolved things. Or the power, if there was power, behind the rest of the process. How she decided what needed to change and then how to change it. Or if she took action at all.
Now I keep hearing myself say it with as little idea of what and how to make changes as when I was little and hearing my mom say the same words.
Well. I know this: I’m not trapped. I feel trapped because I don’t have a ton of money to make moves. To pick up and try out another town. And that does make me feel sort of powerless. Yet I know I’m not.
I feel trapped in my job. And I like it less and less. I see the point in it—the opportunity that I thought I saw—to be disintegrating.
If I felt purposeful doing it. That would be one thing. But the main problem, the MAIN problem…is that at this point in my life I have more going on upstairs than it takes to be bagging eighths of weed in a (legal)cannabis distribution outfit.
It makes me feel, overall, that what I’m doing in life is underachieving and purposeless.
Except for writing. In working out the puzzle of my thoughts and ideas with words, I feel joy, terror, challenge, and purpose. But even in writing and the deep sense of purpose I find doing it, I struggle to actualize. I haven’t been published. I haven’t even tried. I don’t even know where to begin. (There’s that “I don’t know” problem). Part of not trying is fear. Fear that my life has stayed so small living in the same town my entire life that my thoughts too, are small and sheltered and perhaps what I have to say is bereft of purpose to anyone but myself. (Ah, and there’s that fear problem).
Fear is but a lizardish emotion. It’s meant to keep us safe yet more often than not, stifles progress when no real threat actually exists.
So breathe, steady hare. You DO KNOW what to do. Purge unnecessary fear. Right along with your holey old underwear.