Hey guys, remember that one time that I started a blog? Well, I tried to be dedicated to writing every night, and I did... for about a week. If I really wanted to keep with it, I suppose I could have, but I've been feeling that I just don't have anything interesting enough to contribute to the blogosphere. This evening, as I was entertaining myself via revisiting old videos, pictures, etc that I've posted, I saw the last blog item that I put up... on January 10th. For a hot second I thought, "oh, how embarrassing! All of the people who read it now must think I'm a total flake!" But, then I realized that there was nothing to be embarrassed because 1) only like three people have read this, and 2) if I were someone who read blogs, I really wouldn't care if they had stopped blogging for awhile. I would just go and find another blog, another fun activity or another (gasp! sigh!) read a book, or go outside... or just something else.
It's all replaceable, it seems, these days, or it goes away in one way or another. Your friends change. People who you think would be your bridesmaids in your (hypothetical) wedding become strangers that you don't really think you would have any interest in seeing again. Places that were close to your heart once, you can't fathom going to again (or they have closed... like several beloved clubs in Tallahassee). Clothing trends that you absolutely loved, you now see as trashy or gaudy. Pets die, people change, political ideals form... As one gets older, the complicated kaleidoscope that is the makeup of one's identity rotates and morphs into different facets. In the past few years I've had so much change that something a little disconcerting happened. I just stopped caring. It's almost as though I've had so many disappointments that I simply can't be bothered to care for the most part.
Now, that is not to say that nothing bothers, me. A lot of things bother me, but I just really don't feel like exerting energy on it enough to really cause too much havoc. I remember once, when I was very young, one of my cousins tried to explain why one gets tired. "Its like every day you have $100. Everything you do during the day costs you a few dollars, so by the end of the day, you have run out of money. Same thing for how much energy you have." Perhaps that same comparison can be used for the amount you can dedicate to caring about things. I used to worry and stress so much, and by the end of the day, I would be a wreck. Lately, I have been compared to "The Honeybadger" because, 3/4 of the time I just. Don't. Care. Or do I? Am I just wasting even MORE energy putting forth the facade of not caring, but being too stubborn or bitter to show it anymore. Why should I care when so much of what I've put forth and showed so much passion for has been trampled on? If no one else cares, why the hell should I? And if I do? Why should I let anyone in on it? Because clearly, it doesn't matter.
Now, that is not to say that nothing bothers, me. A lot of things bother me, but I just really don't feel like exerting energy on it enough to really cause too much havoc. I remember once, when I was very young, one of my cousins tried to explain why one gets tired. "Its like every day you have $100. Everything you do during the day costs you a few dollars, so by the end of the day, you have run out of money. Same thing for how much energy you have." Perhaps that same comparison can be used for the amount you can dedicate to caring about things. I used to worry and stress so much, and by the end of the day, I would be a wreck. Lately, I have been compared to "The Honeybadger" because, 3/4 of the time I just. Don't. Care. Or do I? Am I just wasting even MORE energy putting forth the facade of not caring, but being too stubborn or bitter to show it anymore. Why should I care when so much of what I've put forth and showed so much passion for has been trampled on? If no one else cares, why the hell should I? And if I do? Why should I let anyone in on it? Because clearly, it doesn't matter.
But at the same time, some old habits die hard. There are some lyrics from a Norah Jones song called Seven Years that just replay over and over again: Eyes wide open/ Always hoping for the sun/ And she'll sing a song to anyone/ Who comes along.
There are parts of me that still craves the approval of everyone that I meet so much that I will turn myself inside out. It's almost a challenge. Perhaps its because of how hurt I was when I was young, and my classmates were cruel to me. Perhaps its from my years in the sorority, where perfection was not an option. It wasn't just your reputation that would be harmed, but an entire group of young women. Maybe its from the directors I performed for, the large family I came from, my Type A personality. Many, many reasons that have created a terror inside of me of being less than what is expected, wanted, desired. I'm happiest when I know I've exceeded the expectations that someone has for me. Occasionally I'm happy because I've reached a goal I've personally set, but I'm more satisfied when I've reached another's for me. But why? Does anyone care as much about my opinion as I do of theirs? I have worked hard for the past few years to be as strong and as self-sufficient as possible. I feel this searing inner drive to be strong, be tough, be a bad ass. But at the same time I feel like another line from the Norah Jones song: Fragile as a leaf in Autumn/ Just fallin' to the ground/ Without a sound.
In the end, Marilyn Monroe said exactly how I feel much of the time: Beneath the makeup, and behind the smile, I am just a girl who wishes for the world.
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