Bucket List

The writing group I belong to was given a free-write prompt to write our own bucket list. I've never been one for those.  Seems to me your dreams and wants should just spill out and around as time goes by, but this was my attempt at one. 

I've never been good at following directions:

"I want to see a sunrise in each and every country, against every backdrop. I want to hear the sound of all the oceans, one by one. The Aegean will be peaceful, the Mediterranean will have a lilt to it. The Pacific will sound like an opera, the Atlantic like a rock concert. Each new body of water will sing to me. I want to see my husband's face light up at my arrival to a room. I want to be a writer, and a teacher, and a singer, and a reiki master, and a sketch artist, and an actor, and an absolute failure at something so that I can say 'But look at all the other things I do.'

And what of the bucket itself? What will I carry all these shiny list-items in? C'mon Laura, everyone knows that the bucket list is a list of all the things you want to do before you kick the bucket. Well I'm taking it a step further. I'm carrying around all the items IN a bucket. My bucket list will be carried, goddammit! It will be purple glass, the shade of purple that makes you smile startledly when the light hits it. And it's glass. Oh yes, it is glass; fragile and precious and to be handled delicately. Even though the shade of purple is practically brute in force, it is still a piece of glass. It is still so easily breakable that a gentle breeze could knock it to one side and destroy it. 

Please be careful with my bucket and its list. For it resides inside me, just under my left rib."

Unfit for human consumption

I don't like opening lines. They carry WAY too much expectation, a sickening amount of potential, and in my case they are usually contrived. I would prefer to start in the middle. By then, we've all settled in, and we're just enjoying ourselves...

Tonight, the very fact that this blog exists pisses me off. It feels like an endless diatribe of "Am I good enough?" Ugh. What a pain in the ass. 

Why did I think that being a whiny bitch would be cleansing? Why would spilling my metaphorical beans ever make me feel better? It pisses some relatives off, embarrasses others past the point of recognition. Oh yeah, there are those who would rather smash the punch bowl in the middle of Nana's table and floss their teeth with the remnants than talk to me. I'm that annoying brat who TALKS ABOUT THINGS.  

ANYway, the fact that I am an entitled and self-righteous bitch was recently brought to my attention via the interwebs by a real special person, if you interpret the word "special" to mean total effing piece of shit. But, when some pieces of shit have lots of money and prestige, you start to believe them. Isn't that sad? Pathetic, actually. 

Well, here's some knowledge I would like to throw the interweb's way: I eat Moose Tracks ice cream on a regular basis. I read Game of Thrones fanfiction online when there are perfectly good books on my end table. I listen to the "Twilight" soundtrack on repeat. I love people of all kinds, and I'm getting pretty fucking sick of folks telling me who I should and should not hang around. I've been honest and it's blown up in my face time and time again. I am good to people. I am brutally giving and honest. I will lie down in traffic for you if that's what you need.  Don't call me two-faced because you're not "the only one".

I can't have children, ever. I cry about it sometimes, and mothers tell me "Oh but if it's meant to be, it's meant to be." Say that again, bitch. Say it again and listen to how ridiculous you sound. 

I like to read fiction that comforts me; Edwardian romance usually does the trick. It's not what a "feminist" should read, but a good ol happy ending in long pretty dresses makes me happy for a little while, and sometimes soothes my brain for a bit when I get my period AGAIN, and three more friends announce their pregnancies on Facebook.  

The conclusion that I have ultimately come to is that I'm NOT necessarily interesting, I'm probably self-righteous, and I am using this base and BORING means of communication because I'm just entitled.

I'll let you know when I'm ready to stop.....'cause that time sure as hell ain't come yet.

Decisions, decisions....

Here it is, folks. That obligatory end-of-the-year blog post. That moment when you, gentle reader, put up with a hefty helping of musing in the hopes that we will all learn something by the end of it, even if that lesson is simply to avoid Laura at the end of the year. 

2013 blew big honkin' chunks for me. My husband had heart surgery and, thank God, is doing well since that procedure. After 3 years of relatively good mental health, I was thrown a big helping of madness. I had no control over my brain for large periods of time. Every time I tried a new remedy, that bitch Medicine threw her head back and laughed heartily. My relationships were strained, sometimes to their limits. I drove myself to many hospitals and outpatient programs. My husband and other family members drove me when I was too out of my mind to drive a car safely. I discovered a naturopathic nurse practitioner who is trying to sort out my body and mind on the cellular level. So far, so good. The last few months have been better than the first nine, and we'll leave it at that for now. 

So now comes the end of the year, when we try to make our lives better. Wipe the slate clean and start anew. We make decisions every day. What am I going to wear? How much cream should I put in my coffee? What are we having for dinner?

I've made a lot of them in the last 365 days. I decided to stop teaching for now. I decided to continue working at the library. I decide to keep living, even when suicide truly felt like the only feasible option. I recently decided to stop shoving my emotions to some dark corner of my brain, and have started a dialogue with other rape survivors online. I want to make a go of being honest with myself and take a road previously left alone. I avoided it at all costs, praying that my mind would somehow fix itself, even after admitting what had happened to myself and the world. I'm now starting to see that talking about this with other people who have had the same experience is the right way to go. There is so much pain out there, but there are so many strong people who are healing themselves as they heal each other. I am lucky to know them.

I am making decisions now. I have decided that a writing life is one I must choose. My thoughts explode from me so often, in the form of prose, poetry, lyrics, and blog posts. There's no turning from them now; they are a crucial part of my psyche, and I am giving myself permission to explore them at full force. Of course, right now I'm sitting in a pool of my own AAAHHHHH. I can't seem to do anything long enough to make headway. I want to be that careless, messy girl who looks around at her cluttered living room and sees the result of hours of good reading and writing, of SOMETHING DONE. Instead, I've been in the same position on the couch for the last 3 hours, reading Doctor Who fanfiction on an iPad, and none of the laundry is done. My creativity sits stagnant while the crumbs of gluten-free crackers I've just eaten look up at me with disdain.  As the year closes, I shall nudge them under my couch with renewed fervor, and continue to pile books next to me, writing at every chance I get.

I have decided that I will not let my anxiety in life rule my consciousness. I will live outside of my brain and body, continuing to speak my mind in an honest way, while taking leaps of faith and courage. (I can just see my husband cringing at this thought: "Oh God, what's she going to do NOW?") There may be an MFA in Writing in my future. I may take up teaching again in the new year. I may go to the moon. Who knows? All I can say for now is that I am trying to take 2013 by its throat, throw it over my head into the dumpster, and start living again.

Here goes nothin.

Words, words, words!

Random thoughts in a blog post are sometimes the most telling....Or they're just super-annoying and I don't know any better.  Either way, I am going to complete a blog post today.  There may be rhyme and reason to it, or you may all shake your heads and click away.  Let's see, shall we?

I joined a writing group.  I decided it was time to get off my blogging ass and do some writing in another forum.  I sometimes have delusions of grandeur in which I see myself writing a memoir of sorts.  People like memoirs.  Especially when people swear and tell secrets and make them laugh and cry.  I've done all those things in the last 20 minutes, so who knows? Perhaps a memoir is something I could manage.... someday. 

So, yes!  The writing group.  It is filled with interesting people living their interesting lives.  Some of them enjoy writing dialogue. Some enjoy descriptive paragraphs.  Some enjoy screenplay.  I have no idea what the hell I enjoy.  I felt like such a jerk walking into that first meeting, copies of my work in hand, a couple of pens in my pocket, and a big notebook to light my way.  EVERY SINGLE PERSON IN THE ROOM pulled out a laptop, and my head fell into my hands. When we had a 20 minute "free writing" session, I got through approximately 5 pages of writing.  Everyone else had a piece to rival "Les Miserables".  So it may be time for me to buy a laptop, or it may be time for me to recognize that writing comes to everyone in different ways.  For most, it's via high-speed internet.  For me, it's the pony express. 

I love to write.  Words make me happy.  I love the way they feel coming out of my mouth.  I love the way they caress or assault my ears.  I love to hear them in different accents.  I love to spell them, and I love to see them on the page.  (Why thank you, Dr. Seuss, would you also eat them in a tree? Ugh. As I said before, this is random thought time.) As a child, I used to sit in my room and read books until my eyes crossed, and then I'd pull out a ratty notebook with hearts all over the front.  Those hearts had my name joined to every crush I had; Laura Riker and Laura Picard were particularly popular. That notebook held all my most precious prose and poetry.  I wrote biblical epics and World War II short stories.  I wrote poetry that would make even Emily Dickinson weep. No, really, it was that bad. The poor woman would have sobbed herself right into an epileptic seizure. 

As I read and then wrote lovely words, my real world fell away, and I was the beautiful, intelligent, and graceful girl I always wanted to be. I was the princess the Prisoner of Zenda came to rescue.  I was Jo March, writing and running and having great adventures with her sisters.  There were no bullies in my writing world.  The mean girls couldn't get me there.  The kids that picked me last could not come near me.  The practical jokers, the nicknamers, and the shamers all stayed away. I was the creator of worlds.  

As I continue to fight this well-known bully called Bipolar I Disorder, I find myself longing for those days.  I remember the comfort of the weight of a book or notebook in my hand.  I remember asking my illustrator uncle to create a cover for one of my short stories.  It was GORGEOUS, and something I treasure to this day.  I remember taking my notebook and pen wherever I went, like a sword and scabbard.  Books and writing were trusty companions, and ones that I continue to cling to now.  I read whenever I have the concentration and focus.  Some days it's only a page or two, but sometimes it's whole books.  I am starting a new adventure in nutrition and supplements as Western medicine continues to fail me, and so my pile of "to read" has turned into a mix of vitamin education, diet theory, and Chinese medicine. I journal and take notes and make lists, words flowing forth in as many forms as I can stand. 

I am going to continue to go to my writing group, armed with a crappy notebook.  With a head full of stories both real and pretend, I will conquer my fears and shortcomings and make them all into a suit of armor. I love to write. And there are no bullies there.