July 22, 2017

11:37 AM; Swarm—Winamac, IN

Sitting in the “Horseshoe Lounge” while Jacob does yoga in the corner. I am queen today, but I asked Nik, Zoe, Alyssa, and Enid for support since I’m feeling extremely socially anxious. Now that I have permission to spend time away from the group and even to leave when I want to, I feel better. Still not sure if I’ll leave tomorrow though—the thought of being around this group for an entire week longer stresses me out when I could alternatively be sitting quietly in Mom’s garden. But then again, Marisa Tirado is housesitting while Mom and Dad are in Colorado, so that could be awkward.

Sometimes—times like these—I don’t know how to be social at all—it’s like I’m a robot and I’m observing a different kind. I apologize constantly. I move unsuredly, I shrink. Is it because of the characters I perceive around me or is it my own chemistry? I miss Jeff and Alyssa and Tanner. I miss Mom and Dad. I miss clean feet and dry air. But they will still be there—why am I unable to embrace the now—this singular opportunity? I’ve begun to bleed for the first time in 5 years. My IUD needs to be replaced. I also need new car insurance. Adulting.

Vince the Baker has sat down next to me. Two others had joined the room while I’ve written. We all observe the silence. A soundtrack of bees swarming plays on some speakers—I don’t find it to be the most relaxing sound. But the clouds are at least keeping things cool (or the air conditioner) and for the first time during day hours I’m not sweating bullets. I forgot who recently told me “sweating bullets” only describes the circumstances when you’re nervous. Alyssa and Jeff I think.

The bee soundtrack has ended. Now only the hum of the air conditioner.

The first night here was so quiet—I had forgotten what silence sounded like. Not even like Minnesota where there’s the hum of insects. Then last night an incredible storm rolled in. I was in Alyssa’s tent that I’ve borrowed and wondering if at any moment the rain fly would rip away and leave me exposed to the deluge and strobe of lightening. I sat in tense fear, but also in wonder and awe of the fierceness of the storm. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much flash and wind, let alone in a tent, which held up remarkably well. Only a few puddles accumulated by morning in the corners of the tent, and my arrangement of blankets, yoga mat, and sleeping bag proved effective in keeping me dry. It will be quite a haul getting it all back to the car.

The storm, obviously, kept me up for different portions of the night, and I can already feel my need for a nap. How spoiled I am in my daily life—the luxury of a warm, dry bed to curl up and watch Netflix in. And to think I haven’t truly had access to that peace of mind for over a month since the move out. I’m extremely excited to move into our new place on Thorndale. Jeff and I will make good roommates and cozy home, and we’ll have two sunrooms to make into creative nests along with our extra bedroom, which I want to make into a recording studio. Plenty of room for all my books and glass birds. So many walls for art.'

BRB. Need to pee and sign up for Haydee’s tarot sessions.

—BACK, with coffee. I’m reading a book Jeramy left at Alyssa’s: Krista Tippet’s Becoming Wise (my pen is making mistakes everywhere—my pen, not me ;)). Surprisingly good—the perfect essay collection to get me recentered.

Being around so many artists makes me feel like my art is futile—there are already so many great minds creating great things. But then I remember the thing I wrote for my ICAH spotlight—only we can do what we can do, and I’m not the one who should be putting down my pen.

I want to make fireworks for the hive queens. I don’t know if I have the energy to make so many, but I want to. Maybe when I get home and unpack, I can make us all an ornament or something.

I think of my trauma a lot—I wonder and guess at how much of it factors into the way I carry myself through the world. I don’t mean to feel sorry for myself; I just don’t want to overlook it, diminish its reality in my body. Is that the healing process? Or am I injuring myself more? I feel like I need all the healers to get to the bottom of this with me.

And maybe it’s not me—I feel sad for America. Maybe I’m embodying and digesting our national pain. Like the poem I wrote for Freddie’s project: America’s abusive boyfriend. The gaslighting, boundary overstepping, abuse, general, insidious advantage-taking by the entitled minority, the various 1%’s of our circles… Maybe there hasn’t been a way to escape it and it’s just another wave of overwhelm hitting me. And maybe the reason I’ve been feeling so anxious here is because our little utopia feels so fragile or false. Nothing sounds better to me than to run away to a farm, in a tiny home, with Alyssa—a person who requires the quiet and space I apparently also need.

July 6, 2017

10:47 PM; Nena’s guest room

I’ve been meaning to catch up on writing, but it’s been absolutely crazy with all the moving and Alyssa and now travel—I’m really glad I’m here. I drove a rental car from the airport—breathed the singular Florida scent—and Tita was standing in the garage when I arrived—very reminiscent of Abuela. Nena and Tita warmed up some food and we chatted. There was a deafening silence after I told a story about Abuela (Futurista, moving glass birds from apartment to apartment), but mostly it was small talk. Nena showed me the cancer sores on her belly. Tita moved the lamp from her room to mine so that I could read and gave me extra blankets. I feel Abuela strongly. Tomorrow we’ll eat picadillo and platanos and frijoles negros.

I took Alyssa to the Botanic Gardens on the 4th and it was super nice. We made us “official”—I told her I was dumb for being hung up on Molly and that I was “in it” with her. It feels good, even though we’re both scared, which Chris reminded me was normal.

Jeff helped me set up my room at Brian’s and I’ll be dogsitting Dolphi once I get back. Then it’ll be a very intense apartment hunt, which must conclude before I head off to Swarm.

So many small things running through my head as I wonder what to write… The 4th was nicer than I thought it would be, not only because I sorted things out with Alyssa, but also because we ended up meeting Sarah and Ezekiel at Loyola Beach with Jeff in tow and we walked the boardwalk as fireworks went off all around us—it was pretty magical. Much cooler than being on a rooftop. Meanwhile Dad was missing out on fireworks because apparently Carlos was in a “foul” mood and they left Margie’s early.

Not looking forward to going back to work next week. Tiffany and I only ended up playing two of our beach volleyball games together, and the second one was nothing like the first, regrettably. No flirty drinks or dips in the lake. The Nightside is one week away and I haven’t written me piece yet. There’s no internet here, but maybe that’ll help. Off to read. And then to soak in Abuela as much as I can.

June 30, 2017

12:36 AM; Alyssa’s—bed

I can’t believe I haven’t written in so long—should have been a red flag maybe. Jack(et) the cat wants to participate in my journaling. He paws at the marker. My phone flashlight is propped against my calf so that I can write in the dark. Alyssa fell asleep after we smoked and talked for a while. She made dinner and it felt really couple-y—happy in a simple way. I got my hair cut really short today—we talked about family pressure—my feeling a need to conform to my parents’ desire for me to be more feminine. My mind is bouncing all over the place. I paid Mom back the $6k loan today. This after the fucking week from hell. It was this past Sunday night that Andy came home drunk and threw me out the door. I’m still feeling the desire to call the hotline the police provided and pursue charges of some kind. I hate that I’m letting the patriarchy to go on unchecked. Fuckers.

Monday May 1, 2017

11:30 PM; Logan—bed

Ugh. Yesterday was state foosball (tournament) and I spent the night crying on the phone with Erin. My partner Jaime and I had spent Saturday night bonding and laughing our asses off, but then I couldn’t stand her by Sunday and was grossed out by all the male gaze and patriarchy of the crowd. I didn’t play well either. Worked from home today and had a meeting with Mirna and John. Back on Tinder, which is vaguely entertaining but also disheartening. Still not over Molly’s ghosting. Still wondering about my destiny with L.A. Mom and Dad leave for Florida and Cuba Wednesday—the day Nena is supposed to get her biopsy results. I haven’t written in ages and The Nightside is next week. Tomorrow I hang with Maia. Had a nightmare last night that I got fat. It was very unsettling. I’m behind in my work and have meetings all day tomorrow. Feeling tired. The weather is getting me down—so much rain and 40º cold. Our windows keep leaking and my landlord keeps showing up when I’m in pajamas. The bees swarmed. The chickens lay eggs that Mom puts into a wicker basket. Soon I will be 28. Abuela is always on my mind. But I achieved a hint of stability last week. A first.

Monday April 17, 2017

10:18 PM; Logan Blvd—bed

Woke up to such a beautiful day that I felt over Molly, felt down for love. Crazy how much the weather determines my mood. Crazy to think it’s been two years since the spring that I fell for Tracy. Went home for Easter yesterday and had Mom read my tarot. Confusing messages.

Began working on Mirna’s branding project. Been writing tunes with Jeff. Still climbing with Luke on the weekends. Spoke with Jessface today before heading to Target with Maia. Glad I have my people around. Was supposed to write about Abuela for therapy tomorrow. Have been putting it off because I’m scared my memories won’t feel real enough. Won’t do her justice. I nightmare all the time. But I’ll give it a shot.

Abuela was so good at listening—she’d sit in her chair while I told her stories about my day—her eyes would be bright, intense. Her feet crossed. When she stood up, she’d slip her shoes on and shuffle to the kitchen. She stood her dominos up vertically, tap her pointer finger only. [Here comes the pain.] She loved to smile, to joke—her laughter would bubble forth. She’d squint her eyes and wag her finger in take chastisements. She’d hold her coat closed, her purse hanging from her elbow. She huffed when she was exhausted, blowing her hair up off her face. Baskin Robbins. Pralines and cream. The Chinese restaurant—she’d order cashew chicken. Honey Jam Cafe. Portillo’s. La Briola—she’d send me to get cookies for us at the bakery; Yorktown AMC—anything animated. JC Penny, TJ Maxx, Nordstrom’s. Von Maur, J. Alexander’s, Red Lobster, Oliver Garden. Hobby Lobby. Always leaning on the cart, slowly working her way up and down the aisle. Celecholos. Empanada. Potatoes and eggs. She gave us so much. I remember we went to the movies on one of the coldest days of one of the coldest winters and we laughed at how crazy we were. [Pain pain. pain.] I wish I held her hand more. Sitting on her back porch. Sitting out front on her folding chair. Pressing the garage button as we waved goodbye. Hasta mañana. Mónica. Dominos. Racko. Yahtzee. Rummikub. Jewelry. Knitting. Timber. Arroro mi niña, arroro mi amor, arroro pedazo de mi corazón. Turning the volume on her TV down. Turning down the volume on her phone. She’d put it on speaker and hold it up to her ear. Her fingernails were always nice. Her handwriting was beautiful. Her signature elegant and effortless. Sleeping on her arm, nudging her when she snored. She always kept her dictionary on the fireplace step close by. She always had cookies around. Always have coffee in the morning, wearing her nightgown, her hair a mess. She’d always wear a necklace when she dressed up. We had something so special.

Wednesday March 29, 2017

2:46 PM; Logan Blvd—bed

Will be working a long day tomorrow, so got home early today and put away laundry, hung art, picked up my room… and feel terribly lonely. The weekend was wildly successful in terms of personal growth and progress—went home to split Abuela’s ashes and ended up having a much needed convo with Mom and Dad, and then hung out with Kellie, and then got an email from Molly saying she’s wanting to hang after one more week of breathing… all things are relatively good. Why lonely? Oh yeah. Went climbing with Luke on Sunday and Skyped/Netflixed with Erin. Texted Adam Sondag… so I’m doing the self-care with friends thing plenty. It’s this not wanting to be alone with myself… I need to turn to art. Honestly, I think it has a lot to do with the weather. I finally dug out my “happy lamp” per Chris’ suggestion. Nani Moore is supposedly coming over later to jam—that should be super fun. Need to get shit together for the next Nightside. Need to work on Blue Medusa. I want to make a comic of Babs. Maybe that’s what I’ll do right now. Cuz I need another project. Lol. Oh yeah, also had coffee with Carly on Sunday. Significant chat.

Thursday March 23, 2017

4:32 AM; Logan Blvd—bed

Molly ended our relationship. She can’t balance love and work right now, and I can’t blame her, although I can’t relate to choosing not-love. It’s so painful, this heartbreak. But I’m okay, somehow. Somewhat not okay, somewhat okay. I keep trying out scenarios in my head—she emails back and says she’s made a huge mistake! She comes to my show and we establish a friendship! We become writing buddies and years from now rekindle this love affair! But it’s all painful right now and there’s nothing to do but leave it to fate. I told her I still wanted to know her—left her a voicemail and text—and she claims to still want that, too, so… time. Ugh, time.

In some ways I’m relieved. I’ve been in such unbearable pain, and Molly was a perfect distraction. Now I have no choice (well, I do, still) but to face it and deal with it. It’s like a “let’s get this show on the road” feeling. I’m tired of holding these pillars of pain inside me.

Goddamn! I want to be able to turn my brain off. Stop living in what-ifs. How can I appreciate my existence for what it is? Bury myself in art, I suppose. Read all the bluets.

I’m frustrated because I feel like I’m the only emotionally brave lover I know. How lonely.

Sunday March 12, 2017

1:51 AM before daylight savings time?; Logan Blvd—bed

Today I woke up feeling incredibly shitty and disconnected from the world, but then Erin called and we talked about my pain, fears, sadness, anxiety, and by the time we got off the phone, I felt able to go on with my day. I met Liz for lunch and we visited a bookstore and I drew an ofrenda for Abuela on her chalkboard wall. Then I went home and found out Sara couldn’t hang, so I made some calls and landed on Nat, who was down to come over and I ended up telling them everything about my situation with the fam and my anxiety that I direct to Molly and the philosophies I have about art and the nature of relationships (micro vs. macro) and the inconsistencies I have about my beliefs about the world and my relationship to it. We got high and ate pickles and I told them the story about foosball and Ronnie and work worries. We talked and talked the night away and it was wonderful. Then Molly finally texted back and I was briefly comforted before returning to my general state of insecurity, which I’m plagued with. What would it take for me to feel secure? Nat asked. I don’t know. Accomplishment? Promises? Would these things even be enough? I think a general return to consistency would probably help. But when the fuck will that happen? So back to the drawing board of self-care, which today meant talking Nat’s ear off and crying and finding some truth. I dread nightmaring. The true plague of my life.

I suppose, like loneliness, we might inherit nightmares, maybe? Could that be possible?

Tomorrow I’m supposed to play board games with Sarah and Ezekiel. The maybe catch dinner with Scott and his crew. And then prepare for a hell of a week at work.

Molly’s Liz want to take us out to dinner Wednesday night apparently. I’m not sure what to expect. But it’s a good thing, undoubtedly. I hope I pass the test.

Now it’s magically past 3:00 AM. Crazy, time. Spring ahead. Yes, I do welcome springtime. Blooming trees, the smell of mud, fuck—then my birthday! Oh God. It’s almost time. Gross. #274evr Late 20s D:

Friday March 10, 2017

5:00 AM; Logan Blvd—bed

Woke up from a nightmare but then reviewed the photos from last night’s Nightside and now I’m too awake! Another spirit-reviving success—the first one without Bryant, and I’m so glad it went down without a hitch. In fact, the crowd was perhaps the best yet—so many good friends, and Molly. :) Damn, that woman! We’re moving right along—every time I see her, I’m convinced I’m in love. Not in the overwhelming-addicted way that I sometimes succumb to in the days in between (left over bad habits and mis-directed anxiety hijacking)—but an intentional this-is-a-wonderful-human-being-who-I’m-very-attracted-to-and-makes-me-feel-good-and-omg-she’s-such-a-good-fit. She’s a good fit because she has all the qualities I want in a partner—smart, funny, artistic, ambitious, affectionate, beautiful—and she’s good at boundaries, and she has flaws that jive with mine (we’re on the same mental health page, she’s a workaholic, which evens out my procrastination), and she treats me the way I treat her—which is to say my touch needs are actually satisfied and we treat each other to things and we’re excited to see each other. I feel too lucky, but I’m trying to feel lucky… then again, I’m not feeling overly lucky thanks to the fact that she’s certainly moving to LA in 6 months. We joke about it. She seems optimistically playful, and so I try not to freak out.

With all the family pain, moving away from here—or at least getting away regularly—increasingly appeals to me. Mom and I went to therapy with Chris the other day and I could barely stand it. I feel locked in by words. I can’t express myself, and at the same time I can’t bear to listen. I’m not feeling good—I’m a paranoid mute. And then I nightmare constantly.

Tomorrow will be three years since Abuela died. I talk about her all the time. I wish so badly to conjure her for Molly. For anyone. I try to conjure her in my writing. I have her ashes… I need to go to Cuba. I need to go so many places. I need to go see the Northern Lights. Bring Abuela with me.

I’m supposed to write with Tanner in a few hours and then I need to once again head to therapy. Mom wants me to pay for it, but I don’t think I will… I would prefer to save up for plane tickets. And that makes me feel horrible. I don’t know what to think anymore, maybe because I don’t know how to feel anymore. I’m numbing out. I’m tired of feeling misunderstood. I’m tired of feeling like I need to fix things. I just want to move on with my life. I don’t feel like Carlos is that important to me right now, and I don’t think Mom and Dad will understand me anytime soon, so what gives? What I need is time to heal, to sort through my memories and feelings of the past, and that means finding an affordable practitioner of EMDR. As Maia and Molly both pointed out, Chris is not the best fit.

Work is stressful. I’m always worried about pissing Tiffany off. I need to stop worrying about her mood and focus on the work itself. But there’s so much to do, it’s incredibly difficult to manage my time.

I don’t know what to write about the world. Everything continues to go to shit, and I’m letting it. I try to convince myself that my art is my best contribution to the fight, but I’m not feeling convinced. At the same time, I’m at full capacity, like Kellie. I’m barely able to hold my mind together.

Monday February 27, 2017

11:27 PM; Logan—bed

Jess lays beside me reading her Kindle. We just got back from seeing Get Out with Molly and Jimmy. It was a lot of fun. :) The whole morning I was stressed as fuck because last night at Molly’s show, I found out she got into USC and I was hurt she didn’t tell me. Jess was disapproving. I’ve been unable to cope with such upsets ever since the fight with Mom and Dad in Chris’ office the day before Valentine’s Day. I’ve been a nervous, paranoid wreck. Miraculously, I’ve remained functional, if not borderline. I was convinced, for instance, this morning that I was going to have to end things with Molly because she’s not as communicative as I am and appears to prioritize work over relationships, but the truth is that I don’t know her reasons, her nature, or intentions—it’s too early to know such things. But I’m so terrified of getting hurt, my brain goes into high alert protection mode. I talked to Erin and luckily she reminded me there was a reason in abstaining from assumptions. So when I met up with Molly after work, I asked her simply, and she replied simply: she wanted to tell me in person, and she said I’ll be the first person to know about whether she gets into UCLA or not. And then she pet and kissed me the rest of the evening and made me and my friends laugh. So of course I’m back to being head over heels smitten.

Mom called today. I haven’t talked to her since the session (a week after I got her angry call about Aunt Jill knowing). It was a living nightmare, that session, and the days that followed I suffered immensely—the darkest of darks. I had ideations of hanging myself. But by the grace of my friendships, and perhaps the resilience of surviving so much heartbreak, I was able to survive the days without sabotaging myself. I still feel unhinged. I believe my brain is chemically unbalanced at this point—but I’m riding it out. I don’t know what I would do without my friends. Or my job. My job is a lifesaver. This life right now feels amorphous and dangerously unpredictable, yet at the same time everything is the way it should be. I have a good job, I’m dating a good match, I have wonderful friends. I’m working on my boundaries with my family. The only thing missing is a feeling of sanity. Perhaps that’s also the way it should be. Especially in these times.

I suppose I should include in these writings some note about the incredible unbelievability that is our political climate. Utter nightmare. Inconceivable ridiculous horror. Everyday there is an apocalypse of some sort. We all live in the fantasy of some old dream of our country, knowing it is a dream all the while. The truth of our days is horrific. How do we go about our business? That is why evenings like tonight are so sweet to me. Joy is scarce. We all feel the impermanence. Our fragility. Our mortality. We could all be locked up one day—we censor our speech. We could suffer the hatred of our enemies and burn. We could suffer the hatred of our own countrymen. We already do.

It’s like living in Harry Potter. We haven’t witnessed the carnage of war firsthand, but we see it in our social media feeds. We know it’s there, and it’s destined for us. Life is so short for so many.

Friday April 21, 2017

11:47 AM; Logan Blvd—bed

Last night I got back from climbing (after jamming with Jeff, after chatting with Nick, after visiting Tanner at Uncharted) [catching up with all my white male homies, apparently], and I got ready to go out with Cathy and her queer lady posse to Slo Mo, but she ghosted and I ended up staying in and getting high while on the phone with Desirée and of course I got paranoid and was having lots of thoughts (not to mention gchatting Molly like a fool), but one of my realizations was that I feel like I’m reallt bad at being accepting of the “easy” version of myself. Aka, I’m trying too hard all the time, aka I try to control myself and don’t check in with my actual feelings because I’m too attached to a version of myself that I want to be. I don’t know why I do this. I don’t know when it started, even, although most likely it’s been a looooong time. It happens mostly at night, I think, or maybe only when I get a plan in my head and those plans are foiled. I’m not good at coming back to myself… or is it that I’m just indecisive? How does one figure that out?

[Left diary open and unattended on bed side]

Saturday February 11, 2017

12:14 PM; 3027 Logan—bed

Spent yesterday in the company of Maia—went to therapy, went home to do laundry, went to see Hidden Figures, loaded up my car with more stuff, and then spent my alone time curating a music list for The Nightside. Show #3 was a great success, and I feel extremely motivated now to keep it going and make it great. Molly couldn’t make it in time, which was a bummer, but I guess I owe her for pushing me to impress. And Bryant. I owe Bryant big time. I was enjoying listening to music and fantasizing about Molly so much that I feel into insomnia, and so I forewent brunch plans this morning and will instead be meeting up with Bryant and Rob Littwin at 2:00 for rock climbing. Tomorrow I hang out with Mom all day and MAYBE will grab coffee with Ed—he actually messaged me back about The Nighside and then texted yesterday that he got laid off. I still do not know why he went AWOL for an entire year. I doubt he’ll keep our plans for tomorrow. But that’s okay because then I’ll be free to hit up Molly’s show in the evening and meet her best friend. And then I’ll see her for our date Tuesday, which happens to be Valentine’s Day. Ha.

Yesterday at therapy I told Chris how much Molly has caused me to inflict great suffering on myself. Supposedly, to combat my INFP tendencies, I need to keep a card in my pocket that lists verifiable truths on one side and the people who love me on the other. Then, when I face those terrible, frequent moments of anxiety, I can read the card and “breathe through my feet,” as Chris puts it. Sure. Why the fuck not.

But today I’m feeling good, despite the gray weather. One of those inspired days that makes me feel like I can do anything and I must go quickly to create something genius. I suppose I will revisit my old blog and post pieces that I’ve performed at The Nightside. I need to start working on whatever the next will be. Must do this in time to visit Tanner at Uncharted—he’ll be back from his vacation finally, and it’ll be so good to see him.

I hear a roommate in the kitchen. NPR plays. Eggs are being whisked. My clothes dry on the rack at the foot of my bed. Beyond the brick walls out my window, winter treetops stretch toward the clouds asking for sun. I chomp on my mouthguard. I hear the clock tick. I wish I could summon my laptop with the force.

Monday February 6, 2017

4:18 AM; 3027 Logan—bed

This past week has been full of nightmares. I keep waking wanting to scrub my brain. So rather than toss and turn for an hour, I figured I’d at least attempt to clean my head here. After my last entry, I promptly freaked out about my past mistakes and liking Molly too much too soon. I barely know her and am burdened with U-hauling instincts. Thanks, chemistry, or whatever the fuck. Sap Tapping poems come to mind. I had to wait the whole weekend—until last night—to see her again and thankfully found relief from my anxiety that I had somehow fucked things up by virtue of spooky science vibes. She was very tactful in reassuring me that she was down for my crazy. We made out in the car with her skeleton Dolores in the bak seat. I’ll see her at my show Thursday.

I’m gonna need to write new material for Thursday and I don’t know what. I was feeling the itch for an essay exploring the myth of lessons through foosball. Actually, I’m gonna give it a shot now. Maybe read some David Sedaris for inspiration.

February 3, 2017

11:33 AM; 3027 Logan—kitchen

Basking in the sun while I have it—one of the precious blue sky mornings of winter. NPR plays on the radio. I drink smokey tea.

Last night I went out to dinner with Molly for date #3 and afterward she helped me retrieve my guitar stuff from Bryant’s studio and we came back here, drank tea, played Star Realms, and proceeded to have beautifully intimate, satisfying sex. I really like her, and this morning I woke up electrified at 6:00 AM and obsessed over what may happen in the future when she moves to LA. Thankfully I fell back asleep.

It’s amazing what a little sunshine and seratonin/oxytocin can do—I feel bright and inspired, like I could write poetry again—something I haven’t done in ages.

Two nights ago, my roommate Bobby was sitting at the kitchen table working on art while listening to audio meditations, and so I joined him and drew a pastel portrait of Futurista. It was so great to work on art again in good company. I am finding happiness in such dark times, which gives me hope.

Andy just walked in carrying a yoga mat—reminds me that I need to join the rock climbing gym. I am working off my debt steadily, and now I’m hoping to be able to afford regular travel…

As I was talking with Maia a few days ago, as I told Molly last night, diaries have this way of reminding us that we encounter the same lessons over and over again, and we can only hope we eventually catch on and embed the learned lesson into our psyche. Whenever I start a new journal, I wonder what history will be written, and I wonder what repeated lesson will be recorded. Perhaps I will take a few moments now to recall some difficult lessons in the hope of avoiding them in the future.

In love, I’ve learned that I have the tendency to become trapped in the romance of a non-existent potential. I need to focus on the present—check in and evaluate my reality. If I cannot find health and happiness in my present reality, if I cannot take immediate action to make it so, then perhaps I am being blinded by my imagination.

In work, I’ve learned that assertiveness doesn’t always serve my goal to self-advocate, for whatever reason, and it may be wise to take the backseat and save my ideas/ambition for my own private projects. I wonder when the moment will come that I will earn the right to be my assertive self.

In art, I’ve learned that I have unreasonable expectations for myself, which hinders my work in every regard. I need to give myself more freedom and less judgement. Whatever artist I am is enough.

In family, I’ve learned that my family is like every other: deeply flawed, heartbreaking, and difficult. I must continue the work of differentiation, strive to listen to myself first, and practice boundaries.

In general, I still suffer imposter’s syndrome, low self esteem, and insecurity. I should remember: I am still all of myself all of the time, but circumstance blinds me in darkness if I don’t take care of myself. I am talented. I am intelligent. I am capable. I am ambitious, creative, productive, valuable. It’s a scary world, and it would seem to work to silence me and others like me, but that doesn’t change who I am. Thank goodness.

Writing these affirmations is actually emotional for me—I am embarrassed, sad that I am not my own ally most of the time.

Mom and Dad text. Time to go.