The Ramblings of A Muse

I’ve gone though phases with the idea of “blogging”.  First of all, I hate the term since it just sounds so…bleh.  It’s completely unappealing and every time I have to admit to such activity I either find a wordy way to not say the “word”, or I mumble it – as if either choice will really change the reality that I do indeed…blog.  (Ew).  But anyway, I originally started writing on MySpace (of which I haven’t had an account at in over a year – something I am tremendously excited about) when I had a thesis of sorts to present.  I tried to stay away from overly personal “here’s what happened today” crap because I figured no one really wanted to hear it.  I don’t assume that this reality has changed, but I do think that there’s a lot of gaps that happen in the progressions of these pieces because I ommitt the day-to-day.

Gosh, I really didn’t plan on opening this like that.  I only mention it to give the heads up that there’ll likely be a bit of such commentary to come.

This past weekend was one of those weekends that takes it toll and leaves in its wake not a person refreshed, but a person just a little bit different than the one who left work on Friday.  By no means was it a bad couple days, but it certainly was an interesting two or so.

And you’ll be fascinated mildly interested informed to know that the above was written on the 20th of June…and here, on the 6th of July, I am picking up where I left off with the best of hopes of finishing this thing called a blog.  (ew)

This post was birthed with its title first in a moment of true inspiration.  It was one of those glorious and far too elusive snapshots of time where the fog cleared, things fell into place, and that near high feeling of unbridled joy began to take hold.  I stayed there in that stance of happiness for a few weeks straight after the title was birthed, free time came to an unexpected halt, and the original inspiration was lost.  Well, maybe not lost.  Just put on hold.

Life in general has been an uphill battle to get to a place earning the description of “good”.  I’ve talked about the past a lot, and alluded to all manner of nonsense, but really that’s what I discovered was indeed what kept me in that battle.  In reality, I wasn’t fighting specific people or circumstances – I was fighting myself.  I was in an allout, raging, viciously epic battle with myself…about myself.  About my past.  About my life.  Every mention of the past is another rope I tied around my neck and chained to the ones I name in distasteful reverie.  I realized that the reason I felt so powerless was that I was willingly handing over power to THEM.  Every memory I entertained that brought me down was my own fault in allowing it to do so.

And I’m not really in a dead horse kicking mood, so I’ll get to the point.

I decided to turn the page.

I grew tired of carrying the banners of a past littered with atrocious behavior and damage done by other people.  I have never been able to respect people who wallowed in their own filthy past without making an effort to pick themselves back up again.  By no means should this sound callous or without understanding of the torment some go through.  My heart hurts for the pain that I know the wounded carry.  For myself, the time came to make a decision.  I was looking at two different roads: on one hand, there was the road of years of therapy and counseling and re-hashing of every single painful instance of my growing up till now.  On the other, there was a choice to just move the F on.  Enough sitting in what my mother deems as “pig swill”.

I decided to get up.  Let the past be past, and lets look towards the future.

I’ve been seeing someone since early November.  Maybe it’s his eternally positive outlook on life that’s got me seeing things a bit differently, and maybe it’s just growing up.  Either way, I was doing quite well with this decision…

Until the past came crashing in by way of a miss-guided “counseling” session, an email from a former friend, and a message on Facebook from the most unlikely of sources.

BAM.  The past was back.

It honestly knocked me off my hill of happy for a few days.  The “counseling” session I was essentially conned into under a supposed trial basis – then realized at the end of it that this was exactly why I wouldn’t be traveling the road filled with couches, boxes of Kleenex, and a signed check at the end of it.  It was pretty much like “here’s all the traumatic things that have happened in the past two years of my life, and would you like a side of broken trust and rape with that?  Thanks.”.  No.  No, thanks.  The email I responded to, and thank God, the friend who was at that time considered a former is now back as at least a friendly acquaintance.  Restoration was most welcome in that situation.  The message, well, that was just a shake my head and wonder sort of thing.

But the moment I came to today is the same one I reached then.  It’s a moment when I don’t repress or undermine anything that happened, but when I look it all in the face before turning it over to God and stepping into the next chapter.

“Here, Daddy, You can take it.  I’m done”

Fear is stability of sorts.  It’s something familiar to cling to – a fence to live within.  Fear of the past, the future, the people you may encounter…it’s a tough mind set to break out of.  Living without it is a whole new sort of fear – it’s fear(less).

“Being happy doesn’t make you a quitter” – me.
“Welcome to life.  Not living death.” – my mother.