Almost one month in – I will stop this countdown once the one-month mark hits – and I think I am now desperate for change. I am desperate for many things, most of which I never thought would occupy my mind and heart; these things I cannot, dare not, whisper out loud for fear of them either coming true or not coming at all.
I can’t quite explain it, but the more settled in (to home) I feel, the more impatient I am about moving forward. What is this paradox, why am I always so difficult? Nevertheless, I am doing okay, I know this to be true. I am working hard to rewrite my narratives these days – remember, glass half-full not half-empty perspectives – and my emotional barometer so far hasn’t gone off the charts, even on days when I feel like nothing is going right (…and so, go left).
I don’t live inside myself anymore; I don’t binge on TV shows like my life has little meaning; I don’t internalize every damn detail of every waking minute, and most mornings and evenings are spent in the company of loved ones. I make my presence felt, my voice heard. I exist in a space, a circle, that appreciates and acknowledges my existence. I now live a life that at times, many times, feel extremely different from the past six years. Some nights I sit in the dark, dumbfounded. Other nights I lie awake feeling grateful because whatever it is and no matter what I think, I don’t actually have it bad. This is fact.
I have a table and a room now. A bed to call mine. A small portion of the wall has my posters, those I brought back from Stanford and my travels over the years. There is a pinup board too, where I pin my favorite postcards and the Dalai Lama’s reminder about looking within – “how much am I doing about my anger?” – as well as random bits of poetry I love.
I am home, I am home, I am home.
I am happy. I am doing okay. I am still unemployed, but there’s no rush or immediacy to start as soon as possible. I’m allowed, highly encouraged even, by everyone to take it easy and just start in January 2016. “This kind of long break won’t come around anymore once you enter the working world,” I’m reminded over and over.
Sometimes I’m angry. Annoyed. Frustrated. These days, I converse and reflect a lot about marriage and relationships. I think it’s the age, for one, but it’s also the company I’m constantly surrounded by. It is what it is for the people I spend my days with (my sisters, really). When I turn and look for friends, I find that they too, are knee-deep in relationships. I constantly feel like the odd one out, but I am finally understanding something: I need to come to terms with my resentment about romantic relationships and the institution of marriage. “You don’t have to love it to live it,” Eldest Sis said the other day.
There is so much to share, most of the time I just don’t know where to begin.
I’m trying to write. I’m trying to write often. I’m trying to write more substantially. I’m trying to put together a collection of short write-ups about my mother, who remains an enigma and source of fascination for my twenty-something self.
I am trying, I am trying, I am trying.
In between being and becoming, have I, without realizing it, arrived at one of the two points?
My question is:
If that is so and it is true, why though – why do I still feel like I’m at a standstill?