Fuck, itís happening. I was so sure that it wouldnít happen, that I was so perfectly centered, controlled, cool. Just cool, you know? Well, Iím not. The stress is creeping in. Iím officially ďstressed-outĒ about my life right now. Shit, it was only a matter of time. Okay, breathe, breathe, Iíll be just fine. But I have to admit, and donít ask me why, for some reason or another, this stress stuff is so familiar that itís almost (and I know this is sick) comforting. Yeah, I said it. Comforting. Something to stress about means something to obsess about, constantly be preoccupied with, keeping my mind and emotions busy on a KNOWN task. When Iím not stressing about something, my mind is too free to wander, to find other faults, to create unneeded stress. I told you -- sick.
Little things: packing, final bills, actually moving, then cleaning the place, thenÖ getting a job IMMEDIATELY so I can do it all over again. For someone who loves change, who embraces the new and different as much as I claim to, why am I so afraid? What am I so afraid of? I donít want to know or even think about it, so I build layers of stress and thought around me and I swear, I can hardly hear what anyone is saying anymore. Iím too lost in my own thoughts, my own planning, my cycles of repetitive thought, something known, something to repeat. When I was in grade school, I had all the presidents and their dates in office memorized, all the states and their capitols memorized. And always, behind every conversation, through every walk or moment of play, my internal voice would repeat them, in order, over and over and over.
Obsessive-compulsive? Perhaps. Okay, I give, it is just that. But as I matured, became an adult, I replaced those simple facts with current to-do lists, with stresses and plans. In recent months, my internal voice was pretty much silent. I had too many real-life situations to deal with to allow myself to disappear within my incessant mental chatter. And now, there is nothing pressing around me, so Iím back to me. And you thought I was only kidding when I said I was psychotic. Just a bit. I want to dive right into my new life, but there are all these fucking steps that I need to take before I get there. Namely, those chores, the packing, the moving, the finding a job. I donít want the process, I want the finished product; I want to be sitting in my new apartment, living alone, having just come home from my new job and making myself a cup of tea or some such domestic-drink-and-relax-by-yourself beverage. You get me?
I want to BE there! I donít want to GET there, but I know thatís just me, pouting, the immature me who doesnít want to deal with the reality that underlies everything. I want to be there. And I know I canít, not without GETTING there. So I just want to scream ďharrumph!Ē and sit in an angry chair, hoping that life will just work itself out, but knowing that I need to work on it, on me, in order for that to happen.
So this has just been a bit of an adolescent bitch-session, thanks for humoring me. A glimpse inside the mind of Barbarella tonight reveals the obsessive freak beneath the wondrous woman (donít pretend you donít think Iím ďwondrousĒ either, the last thing I need right now is a fucking ego blow). By the way, dinner with the family was the same as ever. Me making shocking comments and Jane making inappropriate comments, and all of us laughing at everything. Same old, same old.
I picked up Dad from the airport, he was ecstatic to see me and filled with a warm contentment that I want so badly to have a taste of right now. But now is not the time for me, not until I work through my chatter. Soon, though. At least I know that. Soon.