september papaya

I am not going to pretend I'm not in some sort of weird, entitled midlife crisis right now. Not gonna pretend I'm not a teensy bit depressed. Not gonna pretend I'm not off the chartsssss manic. I have no idea why it's hitting me smack in the head now, but it is. It is what it is. I've been saying that expression a lot lately. Sort of pitifully and resignedly. And I haven't been caring what people think. I haven't been caring at all. About anything. There is something wrong with that. There is something also very right with that. The not caring. Can you imagine just not caring what people think about you, at all? Not being afraid to show yourself to people, your true self, the bitchy side, the unpopular side, the "I'm-not-a-perfect-woman-so-suck-it!" side. I'm living there right now. I just don't really give a damn. And I wonder if I should. I wonder if I should care more. I mean I care about food and the people in my life. I mean, I'm not going to go postal or commit sue. There is no chance of that. Ever. I hate guns. And needles. And wouldn't touch drugs with a ten foot pole. And though I love planes, I dare say I'd never jump out of one. With a parachute or otherwise. I'm not going to do something crazy here. I'm just not feeling like giving a fuck anymore. You know? It doesn't have to be a bad thing, right? Someone I mentioned this new phase to said "oh yeah. You're rebelling. You've always had it in you." And then someone else said I'm an anarchist. I've felt the huge desire to sell everything. Literally. EVERYthing. And pack up my dog and like 10 influential books. And just go. Anywhere. Gary, Indiana even. Just have enough savings for a Greyhound ticket and head south or north or east or west. I don't even care where. Just not here. My soul is forever being crushed mailing out invoices people have to pay and feeling pressured to perform and carefully dancing around on eggshells. I'm disenchanted with money and prestige and superficial niceties. I am unhappy in my position and yet beyond thankful I have one. I am unhappy in this town and yet thankful to live here. I am unhappy in the house I live in and yet grateful to be able to be renting a room, even if it's from my own family. I am unhappy in my own skin and yet feel blessed to be in this body. Alive. Breathing. I'm so happy to be able to buy food, something that used to be difficult. I can take my paycheck and go buy all the food I need. I have been able to afford organic food free of guilt. That is definitely a first. I am not an Iranian woman fighting for her rights. I am not Hannah Graham, whose disappearance has rocked this community. I've been that drunk girl before! Trusting someone too quickly, becoming instantly attached, making snap judgments and acting foolishly with someone I deeply respect, eventually landing in heartache but a huge lesson learned. How many times has everyone in my life told me to guard my heart instead of parading it out on my sleeve? Hundreds? To be more guarded and less outlandish? To not be so transitional and all over the place? My heart may be wounded but I'll bounce back. At least there's that. Why must love and attachment feel like a continual, crushing blow? Why must it feel like this humid typhoon storming in, like when we were climbing the tangerine trees in Okinawa and the sky became gloomy and very heavy. I'm still breathing. I don't know what there is to complain about when listing all the positives. Tonight I deleted my LinkedIn because it just felt like pretentious bullshit. Enough of that! At least I can control what my name is attached to, for better or for worse. My LinkedIn page is total BS. It's all true, but, I mean, what even is LinkedIn? It feels self-glorifying and smarmy. Totally inauthentic. Parading your accomplishments around? It's not who I am and not who I ever want to be. It's not like I even have this laundry list of accomplishments. I don't care where you work, how big your house is, what fancy car you don't drive, what swanky college you didn't go to. I'll take a homeless man with an actual story, with wounds, with transparency, any day. I'm not a bullshitter. And that is something I CAN control. So I deleted it. And it felt so satisfying. I don't know where I'll end up but I hope wherever it is, there will be no sign of bullshit, and if there is, that I'll be able to keep walking until the path is clear.

Oh, and I ate a papaya yesterday. My first one ever. It was ok but sort of too cantaloupey for me. I know I'm being pathetic and that's ok right now.