A few months ago I finally bought an official wordpress domain and the thing to make an official site and I said I’m finally going to do that travel blog. But I havne’t done too much with it.
The past few months I’ve been looking pretty deep into my soul to ask what do I really want to do and who do I want to be and what’s being anyway, and do we even have immortal souls? Perhaps we don’t, at least not in the way we think, that there is some fixed immutable part of us. Instead, we are the flame, ever changing, only alive in dancing. I think this is an intuition I have had a long time.
I can think of thousands of things I want to learn and do with my time on earth. Perhaps I would like to spend a bit more time with my family. But oh, I want to explore.
And I know it’s in me to want to share everything that’s going on inside me, even if I don’t always have the guts to write about it.
The truth is, I’m afraid to be seen. To shine.
Afraid to lose, not just that last ten pounds I carried for so long, but now the extra thirty or maybe forty.
Afraid to let myself be more successful than I feel I have a right to be, what with my job not being so inherently noble or public service oriented as some others.
Afraid to let myself be loved, although that fear has softened recently. I’m not so afraid to give as I am to receive, but if you’ve given enough times to guys you knew you would never be able to receive from that does tend to spoil the fun.
Afraid to be too intimate with life, with my life. More than anything afraid to unpack my suitcases and say, “this is home, ” since, as Paulo Coelho says, “life is the train, not the station.”
I know I will never be a finished masterpiece. I alway swonder when the universe will pull the rug out from under me again, and I’ll end up in a career I never could have envisioned or on a country on the other side of the ocean. It makes it hard to plan too far in the future, and maybe that’s not a bad thing.
The past few years I’ve just been abusing myself for not being enough and for fucking some things up, but maybe they weren’t that big of a deal and whether I realize it or not, I think I have been investing in the right things, really.
Maybe I don’t actually want to buy a house for only myself to live in. Maybe my wings are my roots.
Maybe it’s not the lack of being settled that’s the problem, maybe it’s just the fact I keep on wishing I was like “other people” and trying in different self defeating ways to clip those wings I secretly love so much.
I think as a woman it’s a bit of a crime to love freedom so much, yet at the same time, it feels like self betrayal to want to give up even a bit of that to be a bit less alone.
And I’m not alone. My relationship with my family is getting better and better. I”m glad I didn’t listen to the psychologist. As the coach says, they are only trained to stop you from killing yourself. She talked me out of one form of misery, but she couldn’t teach me to love myself. Or to really know myself.
I want a child or two. I feel like it gets more and more obvious everyday. It seems like a crazy thing for me to want. I’m afraid I couldn’t deal with a cat. I’m afraid I would resent a child, because I am such a self centered person who wants (only) to learn and grow.
I want to publish a book.
I want to travel the world, and not always alone.
Maybe I want a gap year.
Maybe I want to be a digital nomad for a period.
I don’t think I really want van life. I don’t think it’s any more economical than backpacking in most parts of the world I’d really want to go.
If I had a man who would do all the driving and fixing, I would consider it.
And I really, really, really want a man. Like to a somewhat ridiculous extent.
I had a recent encounter that made me realize it’s not really sex, it’s intimacy that I truly crave.
Who the fuck am I?!?!?
I’m afraid of intimacy. To be known, to shine, and be shone upon.
I’m afraid of growing to love somebody that doesn’t fit the archetype I decided I wanted.
I’m afraid of growing to love someone, period. It would feel like less of a choice than the doomed half-love unreciprocated bullshit that has been my specialty.
It has been about three years since my ideal of love finally truly died. Then I re-met someone who I hadn’t taken seriously because he didn’t fit the archetype and hadn’t felt like “the ONe,” the last time, but he had a girlfirned and I don’t think it was ever meant to be.
Just recently I met someone who showed me that all the selfishness I put up with and supposed “dominance” I had craved in a man was just my own tomfoolery. Probably something to do with the blocage against love and intimacy business. No one ever made me feel so human, and I know it’s an experience I will carry with me for a long time.
Too bad he is gone.
I wonder if someday he will be for me, but I am done playing that game.
And I know that if I truly wanted it, there would be some guy in Paris, where I live, for me. There just has to be.
So I am going on another date tomorrow.
I wonder if this last guy was just another one passing through that was meant to teach me something. That is the story I will tell myself for the moment.
I didn’t feel like I would fall in lov ewith him because he wasn’t my type and didn’t elicit the immediate gut level “want” that the others did, and I wondered if my body, brain, and ego could really do without that.
Bu tnow I want him I think, or just intimacy, or something like that.
It’s even changed my taste in smut.
I wonder what it would be like to really write something and try to make it good, and not just smatter on the page.
What would it be to really touch the blank page, and proclaim “I’m a Writer”
First of all, I wouldn’t do that. I hate those people. I don’t like people who self appoint themselves as writers and declare themselves gifted and who relegate their lives to the telling of tales rather than the making of them. I also distrust the idea of any kind of research or commentary on life for tha treason, becuase my american capitofascist indoctrination had it that those types are not worth taking seriously. And sometimes, I see why.
But the truth is, I never wanted to be a decision maker, and I never saw myself as a leader.
I saw myself as a side kick, or a record breaking smart kid, a scientist.
Not a general.
I once wanted to be the firs twoman president, and then in general I just wanted to do things girls weren’t supposed to do , like be an economist, even if I prefered words to numbers.
I’ve always hated that in myself. If I was a boy I would probably have been a West Point Cadet, or no, probably in the Air Force, that’s cooler, or Navy. Or a tech genius in Silicon Valley. Or an investment banker.
But here I am, and it’s time to own it.