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13 January 2013 @ 12:18 am
But I still stand in awe of superficial things  
I feel like Wye Oak's "Civilian" has my number.

"I am nothing without pretend
I know my faults
Can't live with them
I am nothing without a man
I know my thoughts
But I can't hide them"

So, these things:
My ridiculously life-filled, terminally ill youngest aunt finally died before Christmas and I've been spending a lot of time wrapped in a fuzzy grey depression blanket. I had to dial up my anxiety meds with my doctor and I feel like they're making me numb but I can't not take them, and that numbness could be the depression.

walrusboy has reminded me not to evaluate myself based on low feelings, as they cloud one's ability to be self-appreciative. He is a very good, and insightful, friend.

It's been a year and five days since Greg and I broke up. I've changed, and a lot of it for the good, and I've dated other people since, but I don't feel young-hearted any more, and I don't feel trusting.

I'm trying to date again, just casually go out and meet people, but it completely weirds me out. I feel like I'm performing a script, watching myself through plate glass. There is something happening to me from not being in a deep relationship, not being affectionate with and investing in someone and feeling seen and admired. It's harder to love anyone. It's harder to see the beauty in the world, except in passing. I'm afraid if I look too long at anything I'll hurt.

I am writing, and getting better, both in print journalism and in my songwriting and fiction. My imagery and turns of phrase are brighter, and I'm getting better with rhythms. I am taking voice lessons and learning to sing two of my favorite Over the Rhine songs as a way of learning about my voice, expanding my range, and developing technique. Sometimes when I sing, I feel the notes with my whole body.

I should be asked to interview for an open reporting position at my paper soon. My last two restaurant reviews, which I pitched and wrote, have both been inside cover centerpieces . . .and that whole sentence makes me feel so fucking adult. I pitched a story. My editors liked it. I was published in a paper that circulates to tens of thousands of people and they probably read it.
I've almost always seen myself as a failure, from elementary school on, but this is not failing. I'm doing something right. I have a vocation. It's amazing.

Depression and anxiety and loneliness and experience are eating my faith, though. Looking at the nasty, teeming underbelly of religion in America helps me see when and how doctrine or practice is wrong or hurtful . . .and leaves me bewildered as to who God is or how He is to be related to. I give to missionaries every month that help improve the lives of off-the-path third world villages, and I recycle, and vote, and try to really see people and not just judge them (I fail at this a lot) and give serious thought to policy and constitutional interpretation and vote and petition-sign accordingly. Because I believe it is right to be engaged.  But I feel like I don't make a difference in the world. Feel plotless.

And yet over and around me I still sense the beating of enormous, sheltering wings. I am living day to day and sometimes hour to hour but surrounded by mystery and I don't get it.

--I don't get why I'm loved.
Current Mood: blahblah
Current Music: Wye Oak