Late Night Thinking

I have shared this video clip from the movie "Up" a few times before. Maybe I've even posted it here on this blog before too, I can't remember. I come across it every once in awhile when I go through my blogs and Facebook links and whathaveyou, and every damn time, I'm crying two seconds after I click play.

My biggest fear in life, is waking up one day, sick and on the brink of death and knowing in my soul that I didn't do my very best to do and see all the things I wanted to do in life. The list of things I want to do and see before I kick the bucket gets longer every year. The more I live, the more I want to see and do. The list never ever gets shorter. So, I need to know that no matter what happens in life, I tried my best to have adventures, to have great friends, to learn and to teach, to do whatever it took to have a story to tell. A story that will surpass me, and my piddly little existence in this universe. With any luck, there will be many stories that will be told about me after I'm dead and gone, and those who are still around will be able to have a good chuckle at my expense once in awhile, if I don't do something to make them all hate me. Which I am capable of doing, I am sure.

The thing is though, that daily life is boring. It can be monotonous. On any given day, whether I'm in Europe, Cuba, Regina, or living in a 40 year old camper somewhere in the mountains, my days consist of generally the same things. Dishes. Cooking. Eye-Rolling. Dishes. Laugh with husband. Laundry. Dog walks. Swearing at dogs. Annoying husband. Watch dogs play. Dishes. That's just the way it is. You can't be having adventures all the time, and I am okay with that. But sometimes, I forget that I'm okay with that, and I get all down on myself, and I'm damn annoying when I'm down on myself, because there just isn't any reasoning with me. But then, I come across this video clip from a cute little movie, and everything rights itself again.

I remember that life isn't all about the big adventures and the big stories and the big dramatic horrible stuff, it's the little things that count too. It's my husband wanting to build a kitchen table, just so our great-grandchildren can brag that they now have the table that great grandpa built for great grandma. It's making perogies by myself in the kitchen as the dogs hump each others faces at my feet, and wondering if my grandma had to put up with that sort of thing while she made perogies. It's about family and friends and all the good and bad that comes along with having them around. It's about a puppy licking your tears away when you cry, and the incredibly bright moonlight that makes it bright enough for you to read outside, and the relief of finding that item you were looking for all over the house, and Tetris and having friends that will go ghost hunting with you and so many more little things that I could just go on for miles.

No wonder I don't ever get any sleep, what with all this thinking.

Honesty

To be honest, I've been thinking of just ending this blog for the past couple months. I haven't felt like writing, and when I do feel like writing, I don't know where to start. Being me, I always have a lot to say, but I don't know if I get that feeling of comfort that I once did when I told the Internet all of my secrets. I have always had a hard time talking to people about the truly hard times in my life, but writing, online and off, has helped me work through many issues, and it helps me to vent what I can't say verbally. I've done it my whole life, but now, for some reason, I just can't get that pen, or keyboard,  to do what I want it to.

Six months ago, I wrote a long post about our struggle to make a baby, our ideas on how we would raise a baby if it ever came, and how grown up I felt that I was actually mentally ready to do the whole parenting thing. I deleted that post last week, having never actually taken the two seconds to post it here.

Fifteen weeks ago, I wrote a post, all full of sunshine and rainbows and unicorns, announcing to my blog readers that after almost three years of not using any contraceptive devices, we had finally fertilized an egg and there was a little hamster growing inside of me. I didn't post it. Maybe some part of me knew that I shouldn't spread the news just yet.

One month ago, I wanted to write all about our horrible experience of losing the baby that we had wanted so badly. I wanted to tell you the whole story, a story we have never actually told in its entirety to anyone yet. I wanted to tell you about all the blood and the surgery and the horrific doctors and wonderful nurses, and how I was afraid I was dying.  I wanted to tell you about my guilt in losing the first grandchild, the first niece or nephew, and my fear that maybe my parts just don't work, and I'm not ever going to be able to give anyone that baby they want so badly. I wanted to tell you how much I hate when people say "That's okay, you can always try again!", as if we don't know that, and already know that babies don't come so easily to some of us. I wanted to write about what bullshit it is that a miscarriage should just be forgotten about, that you should just move on, and pretend like it never happened. I wanted to give everyone a good ol' talking too who didn't think that my husband was just as devastated as I was. I wanted to tell you how my D & C experience made me even more pro-choice than I was before. I wanted to express all of my pain and anger and sadness....but I didn't. I just bottled it up.

Today, as I drank a cold cup of coffee, that I was too lazy to warm up, I realized that I need to keep writing. If not here, then somewhere, because I am losing my mind, keeping everything in. I am lucky in life, that I have a husband who is open and honest and with whom I can talk to about anything. I am lucky that I have family and friends that have expressed their concern, and have offered ears and shoulders to listen and to lean on. But being me, I have a hard time taking people up on those offers. I find comfort in the solitude that comes with writing, whether it be for the Internet, or in a personal journal. I would rather talk to myself most days, than talk to other human beings. It's just how I've always been. A social butterfly on the outside, and a perfectly content loner on the inside. The two sides, they clash sometimes, but it works for me.

So, I've decided to stick around. But I'm warning you, it won't be all sunshine and rainbows and unicorns around here for awhile, because I've got some shit to work out.

Snow Pool

I think I won the "Snow Pool", but I'm not sure. It did snow last night, and there was still snow on the roof of the garage this morning. Does that count as a "skiff" of snow, or the first big dump?

I hope I won. I could use the ten or so dollars. Plus, this win, coupled with the week at the gym I won last week, makes me think that everything just may be coming up Abigail!

Journey to Thirty

I spent most of my morning thus far drinking re-heated, leftover-from-god-knows-when coffee, and perusing blogs. I stumbled upon Nicolemarie and her Journey to Thirty, and got to thinking that my own journey to thirty is off to a brisk start.

In 5 months, I will be twenty-nine. Twenty-nine. It's a good number. I like odd numbers. Much nicer sounding than twenty-eight, but not as nice as twenty-seven. Oh, how I loved being twenty-seven.

I remember a time when thirty seemed so old. People who were thirty, had their shit together. They owned homes, they had children, they had regular jobs, and university degrees. They sat around having drinks and watching their kids play, and went to bed at a decent hour, because they had many adult things to do the next day.

Even when I was in my early twenties, and most of my friends were in their late twenties and early thirties, I still thought that the way to go, was get all the partying and adventure out of my system, because once I got to thirty, it was all going to come to a screeching halt. I don't know why I thought that, I just did. I looked at some of my older friends, and for some reason thought that what they were doing with their lives was wrong, immature even. All they did was go to school, go to work and party all the live-long day. They acted just like I did, and dammit, I was years younger! Didn't they want to grow up?

I had a crisis when I turned twenty-five. I was trying to find myself, after finally getting over the B-Rock break-up, and hated being single for the first time, ever. I had just gotten back from Scotland, and was working two jobs just to get back on my feet, and just get by. Although I looked hotter than ever, I felt like the ugliest piece of shit in the world. My self-esteem was at an all time low. I feared that everyone else was going to all of a sudden get married, have kids, buy homes, and I was going to be left in the dust. I thought that that was what twenty-five year olds were supposed to do. I felt completely and utterly alone in the world, and just wanted to run away from it all, but I was stuck, financially, and couldn't even afford to feed myself. I couldn't believe that I was twenty-five, and didn't have any life-plans on the go. And then I broke my leg, and my dad died, and the last six months of being twenty-five are just a blur of depression and drinking. Oh, how I hated twenty-five. I don't wish twenty-five on my worst enemy.

By the time twenty-seven hit, I was good to go. Somewhere in year twenty-six, I just accepted the fact that I was me, and that maybe having a house and a white-picket fence, kids, and a nasty divorce just wasn't in my future. That was for regular people, and I wasn't really like regular people. I celebrated the fact that I had made it to the rock and roll death age, by loving life, and learning to love myself a bit more, and everything started to change in this whacked out brain of mine.

Twenty-eight hasn't been all bad. Sure, the winter was hell. I'm sure I'll have many more hellish winters and bouts of depression in my lifetime. That's just they way it is, for me. I still think though, deep down, I want the house and the kid and the person to grow old with, just like I did when I was twenty-five, but I've learned that I am lucky, in a way, that I don't have all that to tie me down, just yet. Oh, and I think that I party harder than my friends did when they were my age way back when I was in my early-twenties, and I now understand why they were just like me. Not everyone wants the lives that our parents had. Not all of us fit into that mould.

I don't know what life will be like when I'm thirty. In a way, I'm kind of excited, just to get my twenties over with, but I don't want to rush too much, because I sure as hell am not ready for forty.

I think that I need to really put my foot down on myself, and start saving money, in order to make twenty-nine as memorable as I can. I am itching to travel again, and have decided that having adventure in life is what makes me the happiest. I want to add more stories to my mental library, I want to stay in more hostels, before I feel much too old to stay in a hostel. I want to sleep on a few more dirty train station floors, and meet as many people from around the globe as I can. For the first time in my life, I feel confident, and truly happy and want to fit as much into life as possible, in case some life-altering change hits me, or it does come to a screeching halt.

Anyone want to join me?

Just Thinking....

It is a strange and beautiful feeling to go back and read your own blog archives of the past few months, and realize what a complete mental overhaul you have done to yourself.

After reading Madame Diva's "Introduction to Abigail Road", I became interested in checking myself out a bit. I rarely go back and read what I have posted in the Blogosphere, or in my own hand-written journals, but I just couldn't help myself. Needless to say, in the end, I was none too impressed with myself, and had to wonder about who this girl was that was writing these depressing diatribes about weight gain, loneliness, and heartbreak. Most of my entries from this past winter and spring were so frickin' depressing, as were a good chunk of entries from 2005 and 2006. The feeling that the world was shitting on my head, was a common topic of conversation. I just wanted to go back in time and slap myself, and then give myself a hug, and tell me that everything would be alright.

Somewhere between here and here, things started to brighten up a bit, when it came to writing about life in general, and it's been gettin' better ever since. Life ain't so shitty. Maybe it's the seasons, maybe it's just a change of attitude, maybe I just shit on myself for minor things because it's easier than dealing with the actual depressing things that have happened to me in life. Or maybe, my little blog is just a healthy forum for my venting about life's little troubles.

However, when I went back and read some of these depressing entries, I really did have to give myself a mental high-five for getting through the shit-storm(s) of mental instability, with the help of my friends and my readers. If winter depression or heartbreak slap me upside the head again this year, I am going to have to try remember that everything works out in the end, and that I'm one tough cookie, and I can handle everything that's thrown my way, good and bad.