Stuck

I have been feeling really grumpy lately, I have no idea why. I walk around trying to be positive but can't quite snap out of the funk.

I have fun things coming up.

I'm going sailing in San Francisco. I just got the foul weather gear I ordered. I have to send the jacket back for a smaller size, but the boots and bibs seem to fit well.

I'm going to Seattle in a couple of weeks for training. I'll be there for nine days so I should have plenty of time to do touristy things and relax a little.

My parents and my sister are coming for Thanksgiving.

Really, though, I just want to sleep all day.

Then it hit me...

One of the hazards of moving frequently is you acquire a lot of stuff. In some cases that’s not so terribly much stuff. In others it’s completely ridiculous. I fall somewhere in the middle, probably a little more excessive than your average bear. But one of the cool things is going through your old stuff and being reminded of some really awesome memories.

I moved for the first time in the 8th grade. And then about the time I got settled, we moved again back to almost the same town we had left two years earlier. I say almost because we couldn’t find a house in our old school district. This meant going to a new school, which to a 15 year old pretty much means new everything. My sister and I would very occasionally see old friends (she more than me) but we may as well have moved a world away. Needless to say, it completely broke my heart. But I really believe it has made me a stronger, more well-rounded person. Something, something, something.. cliché?

H’enyway. Today while going through old letters written from various friends left behind, I realized two things. One, I had some kick-ass friends. And two, I can be one bitter chick. I say this because typically I would categorize myself as the “screw reunions, I have zero desire to see people from high school” chick. Yes, I know, somebody give that girl an F-ing *insert antidepressant here* and shut her up. But in all honesty I think I would really like to see some of the people I went to school with. Not everyone, mind you, but there are more people than I realized that I would really love to get to know. Sometimes I just need to be reminded.

This is ironic (or possibly just strangely coincidental depending on your degree of leniency in interpreting definitions) because last week I wrote about not caring, which of course probably means I do care. And also due to recent events:

A couple of weeks ago at my cousin’s wedding I ran into a girl I was pretty close to in high school number one, but lost track of after I moved away. She later became my cousin’s college roommate and in the few moments I spoke to her as the ceremony was about to begin and I noticed she had a huge rock on her finger. I didn’t see her after the ceremony and was completely distressed. Apparently she got married and moved to West Virginia with her husband. (BTW, woah, my friends have husbands.) I’m pretty confident my cousin can link us up again, but I am still fascinated at my previous resolve that I did not care and the underlying reality that I really, really do.

I also realized something. Among the items from my past are letters between myself and various girls about boyfriends and crushes, friends and gossip, among other things. I read about the things that happened as though I’m hearing them for the first time. I have little or no recollection of most of it. And what I do remember is vague and disjointed. It’s like things that were once heartbreaking and life-altering are now almost endearing or so fleeting as to be incidental. Once again time has lovingly, mercifully and even gracefully removed the pain and left only happiness and great memories that could only be heartbreaking because they’re so sentimental. I’m a huge sap.

I guess it’s been more than ten years since most of this stuff happened. Long enough to forgive and forget. But not so long that I don’t remember some of the crazy details. I remember the black and white polka dot bikini I wore to a friend’s pool party in the 8th grade just before I moved. I remember agonizing about it and wondering if it looked okay. I think maybe the heightened emotions of the impending move made me pay more attention. Soak it all in. Absorb every drop before it was all gone forever. Kind of breaks my heart all over again to dig up those feelings, but in a good way. A sort of rich, connected, real kind of way. Like pealing back the deep green moss and finding the rich, black earth beneath. Vivid colors, deep thoughts, and wells of emotion. All good things.

Certifiable

You know how you glorify things in your mind? Imagining even the most mindless or difficult things to be worthwhile and even enjoyable later on? And looking back at the terrible experiences as “not so bad”? Maybe it’s some kind of self preservation to mercifully delude ourselves into smoothing over the pain or minimizing the trials we have faced. My mom said childbirth was like that. If any woman truly remembered the agony of labor there would be an awful lot of only children out there.

I believe I romanticize the future to an almost extreme degree. But I love it. I think it gives me drive and purpose. Helps me to obtain my loftiest goals despite the strain and drudgery I may have to endure to achieve them. It’s why we can work 14 hour days. Stay up all night writing papers. Go to the gym even though it’s the last damn thing we want.

When I think about getting my masters degree I’m like ‘ooh, I love studying and staying up all night’. It sounds all fun and exciting. Though the reality is you get little or no sleep, have to study more than anyone will really admit to, and then you’re seriously in debt and spend the rest of your life paying it off. Doesn’t that sound fun?!

Whoever said a little delusion wasn’t healthy?