All my fault(s)

Enough time has passed since the downfall of my former life and dreams that reality is beginning to set in. Some may see that as a blessing, to look clearly upon the events of the past year and analyze in a logical manner. Those people don't realize that though I see these mistakes in 3-D surround sound, there is no logic to the interpretations. Not yet.

I can't remember if someone has already said this or if I'm being unseasonably insightful, but man is his own worst enemy. Actually, thinking on it, I'm sure someone very famous and smart said it. If someone like that said something this clever, then it must be true.

Anyway, I go through periods in my life where I am more than my worst enemy—I am my absolute destruction. Yes, yes, that is a bit overdramatic, but if you've never felt the soul-crippling effects of absolute failure coupled with perfectionism and an overwhelming sense of responsibility for everything, even that not within your power, then you won't understand. That's a good thing. I promise.

As I see it, the fog of panic is fading, plus the inner-survivalist is getting a brief respite. That means recrimination is rearing its repugnant head, its red-hot gaze already beginning to pierce the armor of self-esteem. That is my downfall: my own sense of guilt.

It hasn't progressed much yet, but it will soon enough. I can already feel the bile churning in my gut, ready for the first major wave of self-recrimination to begin.

Though I made mistakes throughout the process of opening the bookstore, they were all committed in earnest and with a determination that it was all for the best. Only hindsight knows the truth, and in this matter, I was wrong on many occasions. I see now what I could not then, and while there are many lessons that I need to learn and many more that others might benefit from, I can't deal with it right now.

That is the simple truth, but it's also the thing I fear most. I will need to face all of my decisions, and soon is the obvious choice, but I don't know if that's possible. Not for me. Not right now.

Why not now? Because I'm not ready to damn myself with my own words. If I say or write the things that trouble me, it would be as though I confessed a sin that was no sin; only mistakes. But still. It has much the feel of a sinner condemned.

Yes, I know. Overdramatic again. But there it is. I made mistakes and plenty of them, but until I have enough emotional strength built up after such a crushing defeat, I can't bear thinking of them without feeling the guilt beginning to take over. It doesn't matter if the guilt is valid; it's there and will wound me all the same.

And so my demons will be shoved back into the closet for a forced hibernation. I'm not ready to deal with the emotions of the past year. When will I be? I haven't a clue.

When the past becomes bearable

I like who I am.

Years ago, most of my life, really, I never thought I'd be able to say that and have it be true. But it is.

It didn't happen in a flash, a brilliant moment of enlightenment: I LIKE ME! Like nearly everything important, it came when I didn't realize.

It's an odd thing to mention, I know, but this evening a group of authors who write young adult novels filled their little niche of the internet with tweets and blogs and Facebook statuses with notes to their high school selves saying what they wish they had known. Each started with "Dear teen me . . . "

A lot of wonderful advice shot back and forth across the web, coming from writers across the globe. Much of the advice they gave sounded eerily familiar: boys, friends, parents, school, weight.

Thinking about it, though, I realized that I wouldn't want to have gotten little hints or cheats from my future self. I like who I am now, so that means if something in the past changed to make my life easier, I wouldn't be the woman I am today.

The purpose of the exercise wasn't to bridge the gap of space and time between past and present selves. I realize that. But most of the advice I saw was tailored to the woman sharing it, specific situations or people they had dealt with.

Instead of giving a specific piece of advice to my young self, I would say the thing I had wished most to hear. This is what I'd say:

I love you, no matter what you do or what happens to you. Please don't ever be afraid that something you've done will push me away or make me hate you; it won't. I will always be here. Nothing can change that. 

My mom died when I was sixteen, so I lost that person, the one who could have said this to me. Hearing this may well have changed my life. It seems like a small thing, knowing there isn't anything I could ever do or say that would make me reprehensible to her. No matter what.

Life would have been a lot easier had I known that, but as I said, I like who I've become because of this journey. That doesn't mean I won't tell this to every young woman I get to know. You'd better believe I will, most importantly because it's true. Nothing they could do would ever make me hate them.

Once someone lets me into her life, she's not getting rid of me. I'm like a parasite that way.

Over it . . . or not

With the insanity that has been my life for the past two years, I'd gotten over the notion that I'd ever get married. I'm only months away from entering my third decade of life, and I have to say, not worrying about dating is a blessing—especially at this age. But damnitall if I didn't just have a twinge of longing when I saw pics of old friends/unrequited-love interests online, some of whom may still be single and most of whom are still very attractive.

NO! This is not what I want. I want to be the happy spinster who travels the world and dotes on her nieces and nephews. I'm wretchedly tired of pining for something that will never happen.

I have to phrase it like that—"never happen"—because if I don't, then my feeble little heart gets to hoping again, and it's all down the crapper from there.

So I say to you, Aphrodite, that you must not seduce me with your talk of marriage and kids because if I am disappointed by love one. more. time. you will have one hell of a woman scorned to deal with. It won't be pretty.

Brains of a hare

So I've been a little scattered lately. Erm, a lot scattered, but it's not like I want to be. It's really difficult for me to sit down and commit to something when I have no idea what the hell I actually want to do with myself, other than run off to the French countryside, which I can't do for a few months, and so I'm stuck here trying to figure things out and make money so I can actually afford to run off to France . . .

Yep, my brain whirls about me faster than the vomit comet at the local amusement park. It all makes me so dizzy, and I puke when I get dizzy. You know how much I hate puking.

In other words:

me = chicken
universe conspiring against me = axeman

Well, not quite that dramatic, but I figure the visual of blood, guts, and feathers being flung through the air conveys my state of mind a bit more, um, graphically.

But here's the breakthrough: I'm actually picking a project to focus on—and then seeing it through till it's finished! Loud cheers!

Okay, not a huge deal to most people, but when you consider how I've been jumping from one project to the next to the twelfth,* it's a bit overwhelming to work on all of them at once.

Basically, my mind is working its way through "freakout" mode and into "let's get something done" mode. It's a much better place to be.

*I'm not kidding when I say twelfth.** In the past month I've been working on 2 editing projects, 4 nonfiction writing projects, 5 fiction writing projects, 2 websites, 2 blogs, and helping my 6-year-old niece write a book for her parents. Okay, that's more than twelve, but I think you get the picture.

**I should probably mention that of the 16 projects mentioned above, I've completed 1 editing and 2 nonfiction writing, with 2 projects postponed and 1 perhaps indefinitely. Um, yeah. It's probably time I focus.