How many times can I blog about winter? How many times do I feel the push to be outside, chilled, frosty fingertips and a warm heart?
Something is calling me. At first I thought it was church again. On my lunch I sat and thought about it. Felt the feeling in my heart, and begged it to tell me what it wanted. Implored, screamed, yelled and then cried for it. Cried for the secret it couldn't release. How do you know, what you know? How are you secure in knowing what you want?
I'm not taking care of myself.
It was that simple. I'm not getting enough sleep. I'm not eating right and I'm not working out anymore. I'm not taking care of my spiritual well being, nor my emotional. I'm trying to cram my days and nights with nothing but social gatherings and hanging out. I wonder why my body can't live on nicotine and caffeine. Red wine and the smell of incense.
I used to go into hiding. When I lived in Vancouver, I would take a weekend and shut myself away. I would write, read, listen to music, write in my journal and spend all of this time listening to my heart and my soul. I would get all of this work done. Work on myself and I would come out of the weekend feeling refreshed, and ready to take it all back on again.
What I loved the most, was the writing. I miss it so much. Before I moved down to Seattle, I was a writer. It was something that I loved, and something that I did everyday. It came easily, and it came beautifully. I loved to spend my time either at home, or at a coffee shop with my notebook and a pen. I could write for hours and just keep going. I once sat and wrote for five hours straight. Whatever happened to those days?
I used to do a 'zine as well. Ava Dement1a. (http://www.marlboro.edu/resources/library/zines.php) #1 was the best thing that ever came to be. The best 'zine I had ever done. I showed it to Ryan one day, and told him that because it was a per-zine, it would reflect a lot about me, and who I was as a person. He refused to read the rest of it, after reading a short snippet about a previous boyfriend. Jealousy. We got into a fight that night, and it wasn't a very nice fight. It's hard to remember exactly what happened, because it happened quite a while ago. The result? I didn't feel like I could express myself through writing anymore. Even if I could pull it off, what was the point? I couldn't even share it with my husband without him going into a jealous rage. I couldn't share what was such a big part of my life without fear of a fight.
I gave up writing during my marriage. Occasionally I would stop to jot down some words about how I was feeling and hide them, usually under the mattress or in a book I was reading. Ironically, after I had left at the beginning of the summer, Ryan found one of those poems, and I daresay he got an even worse taste in his mouth after reading it. Of course the questions came after that. He questioned whether or not those feelings were real, and if they were, he told me how much it hurt him. Part of me just wanted to laugh at him, and ask why he was never supportive in the first place. Why he couldn't swallow the fact that yes, the woman he married wasn't a virgin and that yes she wrote about some past boyfriends that made her hot. That writing about those things was a way of not forgetting. That it as cathartic, that it was a way of letting go of the past, and moving on to the future. That sometimes you need to get it out of you, so you can put it away and not have it linger within you.
I've often toyed with the idea of writing another 'zine. That it would be a way of finishing off with the year. This year that has made my skin grow cold and pale with sorrow. Perhaps in order to get on with 2009, I need to let go of all that is 2008. The death of a marriage, the end of a brief but deep love affair, the hatred of myself and all that is negative. Winter cleaning of the soul?
I hope that I don't drag my feet on this one. I hope that although it will be painful, that I can see the reason within the suffering. I hope that I can just let go...