Obligatory Introductory Post & What Prompted the New Phase

Existential Crisis, I think I'm having one. 

It struck me the other day (like a ton of shithouse bricks) that I am malcontent.

Am I having a midlife crisis? A psychotic break? I don't know. What I do know is I have developed - or have likely always had - a fear of being ordinary.

Now I can't go out and buy a Maserati (like, ever) or jump out of a plane or go deep sea diving off the coast of Dahab (within the foreseeable future). Nor can I garner a mistress (well.. wait.) But I can change what I can reach and I can do what I've always thought of doing, or even whatever I gave a split second thought to doing. And why not? Because fuck you all. That's why. Who cares what anyone else thinks? So fuck you and your preconceived notions of who I should be.

🖕

You read me right.

I realized I barely recognize myself.

It's not the lines on my face (that I don't have. Truth, bitches.) or the weight I've put on my frame (which I do have). It's not anything physical that I can put a finger on. It's a feeling that I'm missing out on life, that it's moving too fast and I'm so far behind. It's feeling like I want something different but don't know how to go about getting it, or even exactly what it is I want.

But I do know. At least in part. I want to be who I used to be. So welcome me back.

Welcome back, me!

Yes, I know not your typical introductory post and I expect that will be the norm, the atypical. 

As I introduce myself you'll notice a trend here, a lot of "I used to.." and this is the greatest catalyst for the creation of this blog (which who knows, maybe I'll get off of Blogger someday). So all aboard the self-deprecating loco (note the halfhearted attempt at double entrendre there, yes?) and read on.

I used to be a runner. I had a back injury that masqueraded as a hip injury that pretended to be a sacroiliac joint injury. Derailed my running pretty effectively. So has the weight I've put on subsequently. 

I used to be a writer. But who wants to read shit you say when you have no positive words to speak?

I used to have mojo. Have you ever seen deflated mojo? I mean really seen it? Nasty. 

I used to be mentally healthy. Ok not really, this one is a lie. I included it for those who may know me and those who have read this far for your browsing irony.

I will be these things again, with the exception of mentally healthy, of course. That one's too long of a shot to aim for. This blog is (hopefully) a documentation of my journey back to me. Every single last iota of the flaming hot dumpster fire disaster that is me. 

I just bought a camera. I've been thinking about taking up photography for years. I have a decent eye (if I say so myself, and I must because nobody else has ever given me an opinion) for color and angles and beauty. There is beauty in everything and if I can see it, then you all can see it as well. I aspire to show you. This blog will be documentation of my journey into photography. 

I am (painfully slowly) losing weight. This has always been a battle for me and here's where I say "I've done it before and I can do it again!" but yeah, you know if I'd done it right before I wouldn't be here again. This blog will be documentation of my journey back to physical health. 

I am running (very slowly and very short distances) again. I wish I'd never have stopped; spine be damned. The cure for stopping is restarting. It's not the destination, but the journey, and this blog will the documentation of my journey back to running. 

I miss writing. Maybe it's never been that I have nothing to say, but that I let the frustration when the words won't flow stand in my way of saying it. I won't even try to guarantee pretty words and perfect stanzas, but instead simply the truth in its sometimes raw and guttural, painful forms. This blog will be documentation of.. well, my documentation.

I had an English teacher tell me once that when faced with writer's block, to write until the words began making sense.

I was above top of my class in English all through grade school. High school was the same, I was the never-failing English Teacher's Pet (we won't discuss how my Math teachers felt about me). Then I reached college and suddenly.. My English grade dropped until it came to a screeching, miserable halt. Apparently, I don't take too kindly to being told what and how to write. I flunked English Comp 1A. She didn't like the way I wrote, disobeying all the "rules" and "formats" she put forth on topics I couldn't give a shit about. She gave me an Incomplete for the class, because she felt I had the ability to write well if I could learn to stay within the set forth parameters.

I did.

Or should I say instead that I learned to bullshit. I removed all aspects of my personality and my former teachings to write what I felt, and I regurgitated back at her what she was wanting to read. In short, I sucked all the life out of every paper I wrote. She gave me an A.

Normally, I rebel against such blatant antagonists of my will, but I needed the class to move on. This was many years ago now and I’m about to graduate with a bachelor’s and move on to Master’s (time telling), but this has always stuck with me.

So why mention it now, you ask? Because I'm writing until it makes sense.

Nobody said it had to be interesting.

 

So if you're still here, I welcome you. Perhaps I may motivate you to share too. 

Until Next Time, 

Butterfly