I hate static. I hate static on the radio. I hate the sound of static. I hate the look of it on televisions. But, the static that I hate the most are the occasional periods of a static life.
I abhor lulls.
I don’t yet quite know if this is a positive or negative trait, if those even exist, or if it just is what is.
I move frequently. When I’m not moving I’m thinking of my next move. I always want some project to be working on. I am absolutely terrified of routine.
Because of this I come with a warning that all too often the people in my life don’t take seriously enough: I’m exhausting. I sometimes worry I am never going to be quite contented with anything for the thirst for some new novelty, new people to be met, new places to see, new foods to eat. It causes me question if I’d ever be a good mother, or just become a resentful one. A very heartbreaking thought that occurs to me from time to time.
The most frightening, sometimes debilitating part about life is that no matter what option you chose you’re eliminating an option for who you could become, for another options, perhaps more appealing. The alternative to this indecision, however, is an actual manifestation of what I claim my biggest fear is – static. At least one can manage their fears. You dwell on them so long they become old companions with quirks you understand. You’re dreams provide you with a hell of a lot more to lose, fail at, be let down by.
But this. Unmoving. Stuck. Routine. Predictable. Even writing this my throat is getting sore from wanting to kind of cry and scream all at once. I imagine crawling out of my own skin into a more able body with more money and beauty. I should have been born a human hermit crab or bird.
My mom says that my inability to feel comfort when making any decision extends as far back to the very first days of conscious decision making.
Essentially this is the real cause of my failed relationships – romantic and friendships. It starts with a wonderful union of similar passions shaking hands and committing to hold one another accountable, but when one slacks, feels content, loses sight, I feel morally betrayed. It is a partial, very partial reason, I don’t invest in many friendships for fear that I’ll become content to stay when I was meant to move.
The only people I truly don’t respect are those that have the potential, it’s obvious…. but are too riddled with fear or laziness, or vices, to do anything about it. Maybe I see myself in them.
I worry about this. I worry that it will always be a source of unhappiness, of feeling like I’m close and, yet, far from where I want to be…that I will never feel I have reached some vague idea of a milestone in life. Other times, I wonder if it is just what fuels me. Some women are gassed up with the idea of a career, or a family, or stability of some sort. I am fueled by an undying passion to feel, read, see, do, and experience absolutely everything.
One lifetime just isn’t enough to be all of the people you want to be.
Maybe the secret is just learning to be grateful. So, I tell myself daily what there is to be grateful for. I read, and that helps. That helps a lot. It allows me to live multiple lives.
Art, travel, and learning to be grateful is the only antidote for this disposition I’ve found to be a modicum of comfort yet.
So at night, I tell myself a lullaby. I sing myself songs to get that lull=a-bye. BAD I KNOW.