Why Waking Up Today was an Absolue Headache.

Sometimes you’re just so tired your brain with not funct— Scratch that. When you’re in your mid to late 20s (and I assume from that point forward) you’re almost always just so tired your brain will not function properly.

One hour ago is a good example. I had about three moments in my past where I wake up, glance at my clock, and realize I am late for work. Sometimes very late.

About a dozen more times I wake up, glance at my clock, and confuse AM and PM, resulting in that same panic attack.

This morning was the latter incident.

That all wouldn’t have been too bad (even the inability to go back to sleep) had it not been for my alarm when it did go off. I se my alarm for every day to try and fix the sleep schedule work has given me. When I wake up after ten I just feel the day is wasted.

But, you see, to turn the alarm off in the morning instead of just having it go to snooze, I have to press the button that sets it on. This button also switches the alarm mode from a repeating tone to the radio.

And few things will wake you up so quickly as hearing an unknown female voice speaking suddenly in your dark room about snow.

Revisiting a Tune

Ever have a song you listen to over and over again until it becomes cliché? There are a few songs from high school that are like that to me. “When God Made You” “My Immortal” “Bring me to Life” “This is My Now” “Blessings”…the list goes on as they always do.

Earlier this year though, a particular song on this list struck me. I guess hearing it again after so many years of not listening to it was like hearing it for the first time. This song was “God Bless the Broken Road”.

I was just working in the kitchen at Marriott while my coworker had put the country music station on. For some reason this song had become popular again and it made me pause a little. At that time I couldn’t have imagined how this song would come back to me yet again today.

The thing is, this song never made me cry. In high school, I was filled with imaginings of so many romantic ways I would fall in love with the dream guy and have my perfect wedding and an adventurous life and marriage. A few months ago, I now realized I had actually walked a somewhat broken road.

Now though? I have one man I think of when I listen to this song. Yeah, it’s corny. I know. But, thinking of his kindness, his strangeness, and the times he understands mixed with when he doesn’t understand, I just know  that for now at the very least, I have been given someone who has been a blessing to me on this life journey.

When we first started dating but weren’t official yet, I remember I kept telling him it “meant a lot” when he would do kind things for me. He commented that everything seemed to mean a lot as if everything he did wasn’t extraordinary. I think he’s finally understanding just how much his “not much” means to me. I just know full well that had I not been mistreated and hurt, I wouldn’t cry now. I wonder if most of my pain was given to me just so I would understand how blessed I am now.

I’m sorry for the late night rambling, but, I felt a need to let this out. And…it’s too early in the morning to wake someone up and be grateful about my life with them. XD

Given More

Yes, this is a day late, but it’s been on my mind lately.

This year, all I am thankful for can be summed up into one sentence: Last year wasn’t like this.

Was last year bad? Honestly, no. I had a job, I had friends at work I enjoyed talking to, I had my family, I had my car, I had my apartment, and three wisdom teeth in desperate need of removal. I was enjoying a good life and planning adventures I’d have in the years to come (mostly to do with travel). Anyone who was in the position I was in this time last year would have reason to be content, as I was.

But, things are different this year.

I cut off contact with people who weren’t healthy to keep in my life anymore, all the while trying to reach out to those I had allowed to drift away. By March, I was seeking a job that offered me more, I was make arrangements to remove my wisdom teeth, and feeling…a little surprised at myself. Why was I breaking my plans? What about the discounts I’d get while traveling everywhere? Did I really want to leave?

Then, while looking for a new job, one fateful day came and I made a match.com account on an absolute whim. By July I had a new job and a new friend I was visiting at least once a week.

Now, here I am. I dropped the Professor off at his house and once again he told me he loves me and I reciprocated gladly. Our good-bye was long as we’re meeting together for church in a few days. I am about to head out for the night shift of my job that gave me the benefits I was wanting, but much sooner than the job I got in July would be able to give.

I never expected my life to get better. It has. I am blessed and I am grateful for how the circumstances of my job pushed me to get something better and the results of a whim brought a man into my life that I never knew I would fall in love with and be loved by so selflessly in return. I look back at the girl I was last year and just think, “You have no idea how much better things will be next year”.

I know I would have been confused. Life was good back then. Why would I want more?

But, God gave me more, and I am thankful.

Alive Again

Breathing in the cold autumn seems to bring me back to life each year. I was pleased to step outside to head to work on a midmorning two days ago and find that the air had a chill to it. Almost cold enough to excuse a sweatshirt.

Sadly, I had neglected mine inside and did without.

But, lately I’ve realized the biggest reason why I love the cold so much is because the warmth I receive from baggy sweaters, long hugs, crackling fires, and steaming mugs seems…just a little bit more welcome to me. Instead of having the warmth ever-present and ever-ignored, it’s cherished. It’s welcome now.

I feel sometimes as if my life is an Autumn now. I value the little moments where I have bits of  childhood summer pop in. I can see more beauty in the world just as I can see the foliage begin to burn the trees red and orange. All trees just looked the same before. I took green for granted.

I’m not sad though. Things have almost settled now. I’m int he last few months of summer before the calm finally sets in and I can begin to see the rewards of the previous months.

I am more anxious though. I want the foliage, the arm around me, the cup of coffee warming my hands and the leaves falling down, ready to be raked into piles and played in. I want to know full Autumn will come as I wish for it to.

I have to wait though. But very slowly the leaves are changing and I’m sitting there sipping from a steaming cup, feeling the hint of cold in the air and feeling alive again.

It’s Been Weeks and I Still Feel Dirty.

So it’s way too late again and I just feel an urge to write this and hopefully get it out of my mind.

Basically, two or three weeks ago, a guy ogled me.

I did nothing to make this guy stare like that. I was dressed in a t-shirt and jeans. I wore glasses. I tied my hair in a ponytail. I was with Professor H. Nothing I did told this man who looked old enough to be my dad’s age to stare at me with a smirk on his mouth.

I looked back at him while I had my car stopped a moment and was turning around in the parking lot of a local park. I wondered if maybe he knew me from somewhere but the more I looked I realized I had no clue who he was. The Professor noticed as well since he was seating in the car between me and the guy. Isn’t that the customary code for “show some respect”? Having my boyfriend right there?

“I’m…not crazy about how he’s staring at me.” I said, frowning openly at this person before turning my head and driving away. He almost seemed to smirk a little more before I lost sight of him.

“Yeah, I noticed,” said the Professor. “He’s ogling you and I’m not exactly happy about it.” I could feel the same frown on my face in his voice.

I felt dirty. I felt like I had done something to make that stranger look at me like I was pleasurable. But, I had done nothing. Literally everything about me should have made me not worth any staring time by a total stranger. Yeah, it was just a look. It wasn’t even a full three minutes while I backed out of my parking space to turn around and noticed him there.

But, I’m still feeling disgusting weeks later.

The Reason Explained

So, Many of my friends already know what has happened, but for the sake of recording I’ll write it here now that I have some free time. Since I’ve started this blog up again I’ve mentioned this one thing called “The Reason” and have made it somewhat obvious what that thing was.

Yeah, it’s a guy.

Last Friday (after talking since April and going on dates since July) we finally decided to call our relationship more than just friendship. It…honestly still hasn’t quite hit me yet. I don’t feel an emotional difference. I am perfectly fine with not feeling any difference emotionally. We’re still best friends, but now it’s ok for me to tell him I like him.

But, of course this is story time.

As I’ve stated before, I was in an abusive relationship when I attended college. That relationship ended for the last time the fall semester of my senior year in 2012. I will admit now that I did try ChristianMingle about a year later but, the only conversation that seemed to go anywhere revealed early on that the person was possessive and that brought me back into that fear of being owned and controlled by someone who didn’t see me as a mind but an accessory. I deleted my account and felt my curiosity was satisfied. Dating sites just wouldn’t work for me.

Fast forward to earlier this year, about late March and early April. I had decided I was going to move on from my job at a hotel once another place became available, I had just had my wisdom teeth removed, and my life was pressing forward to make changes for the better.

One day, I just had a whim. It was a very strong sense of curiosity. I had already made plans to travel the world by myself, not need anyone else, maybe adopt down the road. This whim made no sense. However, at the end of the day, I still had an account on Match and was browsing the “Christian/Protestant” guys.

To be honest, I did see him that first day but it took me a day or two to examine his profile in full. When I did, I knew I had to contact him immediately. This man was wearing a Gryffindor scarf. When scrolling down to see what he looked for in a match I was sad to find I didn’t fit into one of the categories. If it hadn’t been for that scarf I would have left it at that. I figured the worst that would happen is he’d never answer.

Well, he did. I replied. He replied awhile later. We began to reply until May or June rolled around and I added him on facebook. Came to find out his scarf wasn’t Gryffindor but for the college he graduated from. We both enjoyed writing, exploring, photography, and styles of the older generations. We could make each other laugh.

At the end of June we made arrangements to meet in he Capitol of our state. I greeted him with a hug and my glasses promptly got knocked off my face. That was corrected and we just spent the day together. We met again, I got lost for an HOUR trying to find his house and found out he’s not exactly the best when giving directions. But, I drove him to Burlington and we had a fun day. He even met my parents for a bit and we watched the fireworks at my church.

Every week since then we’ve gone out. Each week we go to a different restaurant and explore the areas we’ve lived in for awhile but never had the time to just look at and enjoy. Yes, we also hold hands and go to Starbucks to give fake names to the servers (they always purposefully spell my name wrong because they know my name isn’t really Imogen or Gwen) and take pictures of that for Instagram. But, more importantly we just talk, enjoy each other’s company, make each other laugh more easily than before.

I had a suspicion he liked me more than just a friend. I kinda fell for him pretty quickly so I always told myself I was just being hopeful. Then he finally told me last Friday “If you decide you’re ready, just tell me.”

I told him I was ready. My whole family was happy to hear the news and my sister threatened him as all older sisters must do when their younger sister gets a boyfriend.

So, to protect his identity I’ll call him “Professor H” from now on. It sounds a little less cliché than “The Reason” to me. For now I’m not sure how frequently I’ll talk about him since while he is important to my life, he is not the whole of my life. But, I’m certain he’ll make an appearance here every once in awhile.

I’m No Crystal Vase

I remember about a handful of times I’d sit with my ex (whilst we were still dating) in the snack shop of our college and he’d give me that look of his. It was kind of this half-lidded smirk that back then said “you enchant me so much”, but now I just get a sick feeling when I think of it and draw my mind out of those memories before I relive them fully.

Whilst he gave me this look, he’d talk. He talked a lot. Specifically about how well we worked for each other. In these cases he was telling me how his father told him to treat any woman like she was a priceless, delicate, crystal vase and to be careful to not shatter her.

Pardon me a moment.  I need to sigh.

To the right man, being a crystal vase may have not been a bad thing. To him, the analogy doesn’t translate well. You see, my crystal shape wasn’t suitable for his friend’s approval. So he hoped to change it with his words, thin my shape and make the edges smooth and inoffensive to anyone. I was so much an embarrassment when I didn’t hold what his friends placed value in and he’d encourage me to hold different things. My purpose suited him perfectly sometimes, other times it just wasn’t enough. He’d want a vase that was more a vase or a vase that wasn’t trying so hard to be a vase.

The “vase” I was never changed, but his perception of me often did, and therefore his perception of what value I was.

I realized during one of our numerous break-ups that a coffee cup holds more value to me than a crystal vase. A coffee cup holds coffee. Coffee is happiness. A crystal vase sits in the back of your cabinet until someone happens to give you flowers and sometimes even then it’s not big enough or has a funny mouth or you just happen to hit it and break off that one edge and then throw it out so it doesn’t hurt you or those you care about, or you set it in the cabinet again to never be used and kept only for sentimentality.

Ok, I might be carrying this analogy a little too far for personal reasons but I know someone out there might get this.

The point is: it was just words. Words that did not hold up to the test of time. I was used so many times for things I wasn’t meant to be used for and broken because I thought his view of me determined my value.

Somewhere during this time I learned about Kintsukuroi. It’s an art form where when a bowl, rock, or piece of pottery is broken, it is repaired with gold. It’s a beautiful art form to look at and to think about. When something becomes broken, it doesn’t become useless or unloveable. It’s value is actually raised with the gold added to it. Anyone who has been abused looks at that art form and knows the full meaning of it.

Each time I was dropped or smashed, God repaired me and eventually brought people forward into my life who showed me that my value was priceless and places where I was broken were places of beauty. One of those people was my friend Miss (now Mrs) Risabella Rambler, who went through a similar situation to mine.

Now, I’m not a “priceless, delicate, crystal vase”. I’m me. I am someone who is treasured with or without the approval of another person.

I was broken. I am repaired. I am beautiful always.

What I Found Out When I Started Cooking

I never thought cooking would be a passion for me, at least not as much as acting or art or writing. Baking was more what I was interested in to be honest. And, I was more focused in the result than the actual process.

Somewhere when I was working my first job as a cook I realized…I loved it. It’s immensely satisfying pulling off a perfect egg flip for an over easy egg or creating an aesthetically pleasing omelette. Now I’m dreaming of appearing on “Chopped” or “Iron Chef” one day (Yes, I know “Iron Chef” is rigged, It’s still an honor to cook against the Iron Chefs even if you know you’ll lose.)

But for now, I’m learning many things about cooking…some of them the hard way.

• First of all, I’m learning that beautiful hands are never going to be a possibility. Short nails may not be stylish but they are practical for the work I do since they don’t tear or break as easily. Frequent hand-washing also dries out my hands, especially in the winter.But, those are everyday things. I didn’t mention the burns. Currently I have a scar about the size of a nickel on the back of my right hand. It reminds me to be extra careful when cleaning  a frialator. I also carried scars on three of my finger for a few months when I mishandled a pot once. It took two days to stop feeling the burn. Thankfully that was before my “weekend” so i had a day off to rest.

  Speaking of weekends…

• I don’t have weekends. I have maybe one full day off and a day where I work one short shift. This is normal. Rarely will I get two full days off together. I will also be working most holidays. At least this year I’ll automatically have Christmas day off instead of needing to request that time off. That being said…
• I may not have enough hours to qualify for insurance. Sadly, I had to leave a job for this reason (among a few others but those don’t need to be named). Few things mess with how you relate to coworkers as when you have to argue with them over what hours you are working that they want. It may seem odd that when I work six days a week that I won’t be able to easily make the 30 hour minimum but, it happens. Being a cook wears you out and some days when it gets slow enough after a heavy rush that the manager asks you if you just want to head home early, you take it. Also, depending on how many other cooks are full-time, managers may not be able to satisfy everyone’s scheduling needs. Worrying about insurance is something I never realized would come with adulthood. However…
• I am proud of my uniform. The chef’s pants may be a total fashion statement that smell like the frialator even after being washed twice with vinegar. The chef’s jacket can get to be very hot and does nothing for my shape. But, I am proud of them. They are marks of a trade and a skill that I am happy to have been given while writing continues to elude me for the time being.But I might need to wash them a third time just to get that fry oil smell out of them. eesh!
• My OCD and cooking seem to go hand-in-hand. You need to be germophobic and pay attention to detail when preparing a dish. Plating is like painting a piece of art. A dish should taste good but looking good is a bonus.
• Also, I’m allowed to shout. Whether it’s shouting “Behind” as I go barreling from my station to the walk-in to get more mixed greens, or letting a server know the guac side they requested is in the window to be picked up, there is something liberating about being loud sometimes.

Above all, I’ve learned that despite the abuses from the customers, the strain of answering tickets, and the frustrations of not-yet-ripe avocados, and the occasional drama, I love being in the kitchen.

My Favorite Nightmare

First of all, you need to understand what my dreams are typically like. Imagine all your life experiences dumped into a blender, from childhood to now. Blend until it’s chunky and set it aside. Now take your favorite stories form books, tv, movies, theater, or otherwise and dice them before putting that into the blender mixture. Once that is all set, take some historical events and coarsely grind them over the mixture before running it a few more pulses until well blended. You can only stand the first few sips of it a night but that’s your dream so you’re stuck with it.

Nightmares though. On rare occasions, nightmares abandon the recipe or make the world of your mind unrecognizable.

My favorite nightmare I call “The Mummy-Head Nightmare”

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It’s winter and I’m on a ski trip with a bunch of people I’ve never seen in real life, but somehow know casually. Everything is calm. The weather is bright and alive with snow falling and people going about their business and having fun. Everyone is in their winter clothes and, despite the amount of people milling in and out of the main room/kitchen area I’m in, it’s not loud, but instead a peaceful sort of noise.

Then I start feeling something rotting in my face. Right behind the space between my nose and upper lip I feel this stinging pain and there is the sense that my face is decaying. If I pressed down on that area it will burn from the rot spreading and destroying me. I somehow know this even though I never touch that part of my face.

I don’t remember starting the conversation, but as the last of the group is leaving, I’m talking to a woman who is older than me and ready to travel, not go out in the snow to play. She and everyone else is leaving while i’m standing there, explaining the pain that has now started to move into my cheeks and behind my nose.

 

The woman I am speaking to is blonde and has a motherly face but something about her tells me she doesn’t want to handle my problem when I explain it to her. She just smiles as me and shakes her head slightly, saying “I know what that is. Many people are getting it, but it’s incurable.”

I can’t remember if she said it would kill me or not but I felt like it would anyway. Somehow the world “terminal” entered my mind at that part of the dream. It was unspoken but there. Something  just seemed hopeless about whatever disease I had.

Then I’m alone in front of a picture window. it’s still and quiet and I can see the snow falling outside in the sunny day.

When I say I am alone, It’s only me there, but I am two people. I’m me, holding a pill bottle and facing the window, and I am also me, facing the kitchen, standing silently and still. We wear the same clothes, breathe at the same time, and I feel sensations from both of my forms.

But as I stand in front of myself with a bottle of pills, I can’t figure out how I’m alive still. Because from the neck up, the other me’s head is completely rotted away on the inside. All that is left is my skin, black like a mummy’s, and dried to be paper thin. My teeth are somehow still in my mouth though my skull is missing when I walk closer and look inside my own head.

My eyes are open and empty, my mouth is open, even my nose can be looked into and all I see is this clump of black matter stuck to the back of my head on the inside. Somehow, I know it’s my brain.

 

My hair is gone and instead I have what looks like an army helmet, only a little longer in the back, growing on my head and almost covering my face. I pull it back and it tears in layers like a book. Almost as if you were ripping a dried mushroom cap apart. I can’t remove more than the first chuck I tear out, so I just stare at myself trying to figure out why I am not dead.

I know that somehow my only hope is the bottle of pills in my hand, but I can’t even figure out how I could eat them. All I know is I’m running out of time and need 12 pills to try and save my life. I run to the nearest counter and frantically count out twelve pills, messing up once and starting again.

I return to myself and almost debate how can I ever ingest them when I literally have nothing to chew them with or saliva to dissolve them. I just remember there is not a lot of time and dump the pills into my mouth. I feel them fall in and disappear. Then, I start to feel a new sensation before I wake up.

The insides of my head are growing back.

Midnight Musing: Everyone is Flowers

Ever have your mind wander after an eventful day? I assume for you that most of the time this happens right when you’re trying to sleep. I’m not certain how logically this will hold up but, as I’m trying to fall asleep I’ve realized something: Everyone is flowers.

Some of us are Tulips. We have layers keeping the casual observer from our cores but those petals are few and getting close is only too easy.

Others are Roses, you often have to pry the few center petals away before you get to the middle of where those layers come from.

Similar to roses are Thistles. They start out covered in spikes almost but eventually they open up with patience.

Then there are Poison Parsnips. They appear like yellow Queen Anne’s Lace but sting worse than Poison Ivy. Seeing their center doesn’t change anything, they still hurt and everyone knows they hurt.

I imagine artists to be Orchids: writers, musicians, those who show themselves truly, but with such splendor that people often find them fascinating.

To be honest, I’m not sure what flower I’d be. I’d like to say that I’m a Columbine. They’re fully open, but they’re quirky; beautiful only to certain people. Every year after harsh New England winters, they come back almost like wildfire and can spread throughout a field if given enough time.

Call it romantic ideals, but Columbines are almost unapologetic for being what they are. They’re not worried about people seeing them and will come back against and again no matter how harsh things get. They’re a flower that’s able to be reached easily.

I want to be a Columbine, but I’m not sure if I am one yet.