Statement of Fear

Today I was thinking about all the different things I could be doing other than being at work, like laundry, dishes, and there was the thought of my statement of purpose for grad school.  It will sound silly to most of you who read this because the piece is required to have 200-500 words explaining 'why me?' for this program.  I will say it also took me awhile to figure out what piece of my personal writing to submit also, which I did find after some inspiration reflecting that I understand fiction and can analyze it.

I still have a little time before my statement of purpose it due, still I am afraid that what I write will not be 'good enough.'  Yes, I will say I am a verbal artist even though for this piece I am utterly...speechless? wordless? artistically useless?  I want to express how every day I wake up wanting to put a pen in my hand and watch the ink bleed into the paper creating an imaginative world with adventures and journeys outside of reality or that I crave the smooth water-like feeling of computer keys against my figures as the words visually create brush strokes with no brush.  How do I express something I am so passionate about that if it does not exist I would feel a part of me died as this if my first thought in the morning and my last thought before I go to bed?  I keep writing this piece to submit over and over because I do not think what I am writing is 'good enough,' even by my own standard, then again I am a perfectionist who fears failure.

This week I realized my statement of purpose is not my only fear in relation to writing.  Winter is among us and my hands hurt to the point of tears, at least lately.  Within the last year I saw a rheumatologist who told me that I have Psoriatic Arthritis, which affects my skin and my joints.  A long time ago, sometime after my siblings and I had lice, I saw a doctor who told me I had Psoriasis, which is a skin disease where my skin cells develop faster than normal that eventually create itchy scaly patches in specific parts of my body.  Psoriasis is an autoimmune disease, meaning my body is basically attacking itself. (Side note from my morbid sense of humor: Could this be considered an uncontrollable type of suicide?-I apologize if that is not funny to you, but I am not a serious persona at heart).  The arthritis that is developed in people who have Psoriasis is also autoimmune mainly in the joints, leaving them swollen and sometimes a bit unmanageable.

Are you wondering why I told you all this yet?  If you must know, I am a very independent person to the point that sometimes I believe it is better to just depend on yourself so that no one else can hurt you or let you down.  With this theory in mind, I am scared that someday my hands will let me down and I will have to be on some form of disability, unable to write or express all the passion I have inside for things in life.  This is my weakness and I am not meant to be weak!  

I understand there are worse things out there, diseases more severe that take away pieces of people, but that does not necessarily make my fear or their fear any different  because these things take away a piece of the people they inhabit.  Now, I feel for those people, I really do, but for the purpose of this entry I am telling my story from my point of view knowing that somewhere someone has similar feelings and they are not alone.  Each moment my fingers grow cold, swell up more than usual, or just become utterly painful I do cry because I am not only losing my fingers, but an entity of me and I have already lost myself once in my lifetime.  That, however, is another story, but I am not going to end this post on a 'woe is me note,' because that is not me.  

I have learned, in the last couple years, that the things we fear the most are the things we want/need the most.  I want to write and I need to write because I cannot... no...I will not let a piece of me die.  So like any other strong person facing an obstacle, I prolong the inevitable as long as I can through the use of medication, keeping my hands warm, exercising regularly to keep my blood flowing properly like I did with my knees, and continue to write what I can.  I guess you could almost compare this to the saying of 'it is better to loved and lost, than to have never loved at all' because as long as I do what I love, I cannot feel lost. (Excuse me, time to warm up the hands :P)

The 'Always' of 'Be Coming'

I have been doing a lot of talking with friends these days about life changes, wondering about how many times in our lives do we change on a personal note.  Now a smartass would say that we are changing constantly.  Well, duh, but when do we get to the point of satisfaction or where we want to be in our growing state of mind?

I kept coming back to the phrase ‘coming of age,’ which in its true self is a vague term.  What defines a coming of age?  Internet sources such as Wikipedia and Webster’s Dictionary say that ‘coming of age’ is when we become an adult.  Based on that statement alone a part of me screams “I am not growing up and you cannot make me.’  However, what is growing up or becoming an adult?

Yes, I took a lot of time to think about this.  Is becoming an adult the legal side where, ‘let’s pick an age and say you can do what your parents do?’  Is being an adult an amount of maturity you have based on responsibility and obligation?  Maybe being an adult is like entering a secret society where you have a ‘right of passage’ with actions that prove your commitment.  FYI, my inner child is still rejecting every definition of growing up and being an adult.  I do not know about the rest of you reading this, but picking a number out of a hat seems unethical, as there is no criterion for it.  Maturity is subjective these days with the help from the set legalized adult age and not everyone wants to be in a secret society with uncalled for obligations.

I am sure anyone reading this is in question where this is exactly going.  It is going to a point that no matter your age, like the defined child, we are all a bit lost in the definition of who we are.  I will be the first to admit that I have been in this position, revisiting the thought every now and again  to confirm that I am following what will make my life ‘worth it’ to me.  At thirty years young, (yes, I am thirty and yes, I still feel young thank you very much), I am slowly revamping the puzzle pieces of my life.  By this time in my life I wanted to be married to a man who truly loved me for me as passionately as I love him, have a child or two, and be working somewhere that makes me want to get up in the morning.  Well as life may have it, I was married to a guy who was passionately in love with every insecure female in five different towns (that have been verified), I do not have any children from him (thank God) or any other man, and my current career is under construction.  The process feels like a second chance in the defined stage of ‘coming of age.’ *snerk* I have to chuckle as I write this because the here and now is not where I wanted/planned to be at all.  Now this does not mean I am not optimistic about things to come, however, sometimes my impatience gets to me.

Life is not set in stone nor does it follow a specific plan no matter what others may think, but it does follow a plan, I believe that we are all here for a purpose and until it fulfilled, we remain where we are in each living moment.  So when are we 'finalized'?  To me, this means we are always at some 'coming of age' type period, always and forever changing/improving.

A friend of mine this week confessed how lost this person feels thinking that life would be different also.  The advice I gave was to set one goal and find how you are going to meet that goal because until you meet one goal the other goals will just fall apart since they are not receiving your full attention.  For me, my goal is to leave the town I was forced to live and find my own place.  Living a life that someone else has forced upon you is surrendering and I am too strong for that.  It took a lot of time to think things like through, so I decided to write it down in a book I am working on publishing.  I someday hope that in print it will not be as confusing as it felt, but a better vision of a realization.

Amazing Connections

Today I was thinking about connections and how each person has some small thing that relates them to something or someone else.  The idea started when I left my apartment to go mail some letters at the post office and check my post office box.  One of the letters was to my mom sprinkled with ladybug stickers and a quote from the movie Under the Tuscan Sun.  I love the movie, not the book, because it portrays turning something negative into something positive even if it was not quite how you pictured it. 

The quote, in brief, was about when Katherine, one of the main characters, was describing a childhood memory of a time where she was trying to find ladybugs in the field, but was not having any luck.  She grew tired and decided to take a nap.  When she awoke, she was covered in ladybugs.  From this, you are probably thinking that the lesson lies along the lines of 'patience is a virtue' or the idea that when you do not concentrate so hard on something, it will come to you in time.  I have heard other stories similar to the idea, like if you catch a butterfly hold it gently because if you hold on to it too tight you will kill it.  

So I put this letter to my mom in the mail, sensing that she had been missing her best friend who had passed away earlier this year, one week after my birthday, from cancer.  The feeling I get, even as I type the words, is extreme loss and utter confusion.  I may share with people bits of me and consider people friends, but then there are those select few who know or just about know everything about you.  That was the type of friend this woman was to my mom and to our family, so it is hard to just 'get over' that type of love.

After the letter was in the drop box, I went over to my post office box to find a thick envelope...from my mom.  Now this may sound silly to many who read this, but I broke down and cried even before I opened the letter knowing that she had done the same thing I just did to her a few seconds ago.  I stood for a moment in front of my box in disbelief as I appreciated this extremely rare connection I had with my mother.  We have not talked for a couple weeks, yet we both knew just what the other one needed.

Now I know that many of you will think that this connection is obvious because it is based on mother and daughter, but there is more.  I do pray that when she is gone that there is someone who is that close and knows exactly what I mean even when I hold back, telling that person not to do something in fear a weakness will be shone.  

In my everyday life I do see similar connections, like when you text a friend just as the friend was in the middle of texting you or when someone notices something that everyone else misses, like the color of your eyes and that you did something different with your make up.  Both of these scenarios have happened to me and makes me think 'What makes me so important that you noticed something so insignificant about me?'  Let me clarify, it is not that I am not important, but important to that person at that moment.  For instance, the eye example was from a guy I barely knew, but then again maybe he is like me and just notices things about people that others commonly miss.

I continue this night feeling a bit lost as it appears that some of the people closest to me do not seem to understand me, while the people I barely know are able to see those things that are missed.  If anything, these just give me hope that there are people in my life whom I am connected to that are just as important as my mom no matter how small that connection may be, but it also gives me hope that if one person can see at least one insignificant thing about me then that person must obviously be able to see more than what meets the eye.