It's me who is my enemy

I have always been an emotionally closed person. Going back to childhood, I never wanted to show my feelings. I didn't want to let anyone know that I had a bad day, that I was sad. Somehow I came to believe in the idea that being positive was the only way to be. I don't know why. I also have always played it close to the vest with the rest of my emotions. Never let 'em see you sweat, cry, care, love, hate. The first time I ever opened up was with the infamous Marius 1. The high school boyfriend turned fiancee. He told me that he couldn't love me unless I opened up to him. Petrified of losing him, I did. I shared. I told him everything that I felt, thought, hoped, dreamed, cared about, etc . . . And then he left me. He left me and he knew about me. This betrayal hurt more than anything I have ever known. I don't need a shrink to tell me this. It changed me. I was closed before, but during that brief period, I was open. Emotional even. I'll never be that way again. Today I pretend-share. I don't really open up when the stakes are high. When the relationship is new, developing. I couldn't bear to share and then have another one leave. Because then it would be about me. By not sharing, no one ever really knows me. And if they don't know me, they can't leave me for being me. They can leave me for who they think I might be, but they'll never really know. Maybe some wonder. I doubt it though. Why wonder when I gave no clues, no hints as to who I really am. Sometimes I share more of myself during the leaving phase, the breaking up. But then I have nothing to lose because they aren't leaving based on new revelations. They are leaving because of something else. Those final, desperate words never save anything. I also share when it's "safe." I have shared with those men who I can't ever be in a relationship with because they are unavailable. That's safe. Again, they can't leave me if they weren't available in the first place. Some of these people know more of me. But no one really knows me. No one would ever really understand me. The real me would scare most people away.

Who cares?

I am procrastinating. I should be overlaying six sets of electrical conductivity data that I took over a year ago to figure out what spatial differences exist over the flooded season of my wetland field site. I say this not to make me sound smart. Because instead of actually doing the work I should be doing, I find myself wondering who really cares if there are any spatial differences in EC at my wetland. I'm sure you guys don't care. At the moment, I'm over it. My advisor might care, but that's only because he wants me to publish a paper with his name on it. I think I have come to a point where I have lost all interest in my own work. I guess I still care about the big picture stuff, but the minutiae is driving me slowly batty. And right now, that is freaking the crap out of me. It is hard enough to make myself sit down to work, how am I supposed to do it if I don't care. And what does that say about me that I don't care? I'm not a don't carer. At least not normally. I actually used to get excited about this stuff. What I need to be doing is powering through, motivating, putting my nose to the grindestone. But I am having the hardest time doing it! I just can't get into it. And that is a problem.

I seem to have lost my motivation. Has anyone seen it?

The road not taken

Today, I spent a fair amount of time talking with a coworker about how I ended up where I am. Often I wonder about the road not taken. I was in such a hurry to grow up when I was 18 years old. I couldn't wait to play house. I couldn't wait to move out of their house and to take care of myself. I wanted a job that would pay me enough money so I would never be dependent on anyone again. And I got it. From the beginning. When I was fresh out of college, I had a "real" job where I was required to wear suits every day, to negotiate with lawyers and insurance carriers. My then boyfriend (I hate that word) and I broke up shortly after I started. But I continued down the professional path. I poured myself into my work. I was focused. For my efforts I was promoted. This didn't satisfy me though. I wanted more -- more money, more responsibility, more respect. So I chose to go to law school. I was determined that when I got there, I would be the most focused person in the room. I didn't see a need to make any friends while I was there. After all, that would only get in the way of getting to the top. In the way of making it. And in the way of never needing anyone for anything. (Fortunately I got off this mindset rather quickly and did make a few friends along the way in law school.)

In the process of all of this, I never stopped to act my age. I didn't consider traveling anywhere. That's a luxury of the privileged, a set from which I come, but I didn't want to avail myself of it because it would mean being dependent. And I never wanted that. I like to think that I considered other careers, other options, but not really. I chose what I knew I'd be good at, what was safe, and what would pay me the money I felt I needed to earn to avoid dependence.

I sit here now completely independent. I don't need anyone else's money. I've also stopped being emotionally dependent too. After the breakup, I vowed never to let someone get that close to me again. And I've kept that promise to myself. I've never let anyone in the same way. I highly doubt I ever will. (I know this sentiment would cause many a therapist to send me into immediate emotional rehab, but too bad, it's how I feel.) But I wonder now, did I make the right choices? Will I just end up lonely and needing someone someday? For what? For money? For love? Can I live without depending on others?

I wonder too what would have happened if I had goofed around more, and if I stayed with him. Would I have been happy? Or at least happier than I am? I don't mean to suggest that I'm not happy. I am. But did I miss something there along the way? There were so many other paths I could have taken. I could have stayed with him despite our differences. Despite his cheating. I would probably live in the suburbs now and I probably wouldn't be a lawyer. A regional manager would probably be my job title if I'd taken that road. If I'd never met him, would I have stayed longer than a semester in Europe, joined the Peace Corps (don't laugh - I know it is very camping-esque, but what an adventure), worked abroad, moved to New York when I was young and carefree. There are so many things I think I would have loved to do, but didn't because I was driven and focused.

The Elements Of Style . . . no longer

I used to write gooder. I readed over the old posts on this blog me and my friends writed and things used to sound more betterer. May be their used to be more to say.

Ok, so it isn't that bad. But I don't like what or the way I write these days. My thoughts feel all lumpy, if they have any substance at all. More often, I can't even find a thought worth writing in my jumbled-up and cluttered head. Every day, I think, "today I will write something." And I visit this blog often in case someone else's writing inspires something. But lately nothing comes. Or if it does, it is messy and inarticulate. I can't ever quite figure out what to write about and when I do write something, I reread it and delete it.

Even as I am writing this, I hate what I am writing. I'm not saying anything! I can't even quite get across what I am getting at. Oh dear.

We started this blogging experiment to inspire us to write. And that is the only reason I am not going to delete this post too. Maybe another discussion about how we write, why we write, will inspire me to say something and to say it well (or good even).