All joking aside

MOOD: weepy
SOUNDS: Sting

Look, I shouldn't be writing on this damn keyboard at all. I'm hurting. Oh, well, I'm hopped up on ibuprophen and I think I can write what I want to say.

I'm sad and I'm feeling less than invincible. And, I'm having a hard time dealing with everything.

I looked over some things I've written in the past on this blog, and I wonder what happened to me - where have I gone? Am I worried that someone I know personally will stumble across this blog? Am I afraid to be embarassed, stalked? Can't I own up to what I think and feel? Am I getting "balanced" and thus on an even keel and ultimately simple and boring - are the anti-depressants kicking me into the middle of the crowd? All of the above? Ah gawd, this is the most depressing of all - I feel like shit.

I watched this movie called "Trembling Before G-d" yesterday that still stays with me....

It's a documentary about gays and lesbians who are devout orthodox Jews. The two should be exclusive of each other, but for some it just can't be. It hit me hard, and things having to do with homosexuality just don't affect me much anymore. I'm comfortable with who I am, and I embrace it. I can't be anyone other than who I am, and I love (almost) everything about me. I love my emotional self, and I love that I'm a feeling, breathing, loving and caring person.

I'm thinking about a part where one of the women has been baking bread all day to celebrate Sabbath, very joyful and peaceful. Then, her family calls to wish her happy Sabbath on their way out to a dinner. It seems that their rabbi told her family that they had to at least have contact with their daughter because she was still, afterall, their daughter. They call as a perfunctory task. This devestates her. The two minute phone call ruins her entire day.

Every now and then, something comes along that rocks my world like that. Shakes it to the core and I have to re-evaluate everything.

Back to the person I am, it seems like the loving part of me has some how over time been turned "off." I'm sure it's a function of time. I'm sure it has to do with self-protection. I'm sure it has to do with my goals for myself.

Speaking of, I'm feeling incredibly selfish lately. I set a time limit three months ago, of three months, to give it a chance to find a job here in social services. Not only was I REJECTed by the graduate school of social work. How embarassing! Who wants to actually DO social work? Who is willing to accept the conditions? Me, that's who - back then at least. Well, I had another prospect - a job I really thought I would love, even though looking back now it was more of a function of my daily work life that I loved the idea of, not necessarily the people I would be working to help. Well, my blindness is now my clarity. Anyway, they pretty much rejected me, too, because - guess what - two interviews with them and they didn't even keep their promise to send me a nice thank you note for coming in should they not offer me the job. How disappointing can people be, in the end?

Anyway, I'm actually pretty tired of putting myself out there for others to REJECT. I'm weary of displaying my endless enthusiasm to be stepped over for the elusive something else, which I guess I just don't have. It makes me wonder - am I a big fraud? Am I trying to be someone I'm not? Am I not that person? Or, are all these assholes just too threatened by my Energy?

I've gotten pretty sick of this shit, and I'm ready now to chalk it up to experience. Whatever - I'll learn something from it when I'm good and ready. Some other time. Onward and... upward?

Plan B, anyway. Plan B is to think of a new fucking plan. For the past couple of weeks, I've gone back to basics again. Personality tests, interest inventories. What the fuck? Anyway.

Is there ANYthing about my current job that I do like? Something that can be used as a stepping stone, something to refine and get into a position that I really do feel fulfilled within? Actually, there is. And, it's something I did naturally (important to realize) as I sat there and set out to "improve my performance" so that cuntface would get off my case. I started really going out there and soliciting people to help by designing their web sites.

I've always gotten this exhiliration from creating and designing. I am, beneath my desire to be perfect and anal and organized, an incredibly creative person. I may not be the best photographer, but I love it - the garden, cooking, just the way my apartment is decorated, writing, etc. etc. - all creative pursuits. It doesn't take a genius to see why when I am designing a database, I spend inordinate amounts of time color-coding the interface, putting up splashes of color and matching graphics, and basically making life beautiful and lovely for the people who are going to use it. Though I get a thrill out of organizing data, I spend much more time perfecting the way it looks. Just naturally, expanding myself on the job has consisted of these pursuits.

I had a friend for a long time whose opinion I respected, and I saw him as a natural artist. His life was art, but not in the clearest sense. It has been actually bothering so much that I just broke it down to him. "Do you think I'm a creative person?" I've always felt like I was some fan on the sidelines of the artists I've known. I could take pictures, I could pose for them, I could be part of all these creative pursuits, but was I just an auteur? Was there something in me that actually added to the art? It's kind of funny to think about it now but he told me that he did indeed consider me creative and the proof was the fact that I wore makeup. I tried to wrap my brain around that. He said that, being a dyke (he is a pretty crude guy) that I didn't have to - there was no pressure from the others like me to do what I do, still I do it. I curled my hair into ringlets and constantly experimented with hairstyles. My life is a constant creation. There was nothing to make my do this, no reason, other than it pleased me. I get tattoos and piercings, and though this could be another type of fan worship, it isn't. My body is its own display of art.

Anyway... this work of art is hurting so I want to end this soon.

Actually, it'll end now. I'm going to bed. More later. Night.