When I was a little girl, maybe around the age of 6 or 7, I used to beg my mother to take me to this Art Deco furniture place on Poplar Ave, just down the street from Dan West. Its still there-- small, packed with colorful furniture, crazy mirrors, and lamps. I never wanted to buy anything, but could spend literally hours running my little stubby fingers over the vibrant red fabric of love seats, and lying on the royal purple fainting couches, marveling that anyone would make furniture this bright and beautiful (and uuuuncomfortable, but beautiful-- in other words, everything ours was not). Mom didn't get as much joy out of going there. Whether it was because of the haughty Asian owners that glared at her socks-and-clogs combination or the price tags stuck to the surface of the very fragile mirrors I loved to twirl in front of, I'm not sure. Because of this, it was a rare occasion for us to actually set foot in the place. Most times I just begged until I was blue in the face. But on the rare occasion that she stopped the car, it was magical every time.
The world is obsessed with beauty. Beautiful people, beautiful homes, beautiful stories. We delight in the "perfect" marriages of glamorous stars and marvel at the bright art deco furniture only the very wealthy could afford. The thing that blows is that even though we know deep down (sometimes really deep down) that the glittering surface is merely a facade and there's no way it is actually as perfect as it seems, its still becomes the ultimate desire-- "if only I had a house as beautiful as so and so" "if only your father looked like Brad Pitt" "if only we made enough money that he wouldn't have to buy broken down Hondas and fix them up" (oh that last one is just me, eh?) The grass is always greener, insert every cliche under the sun. Bottom line: we aren't happy with what we have because the world tells us we need more, and that if its beautiful, its right.
Its my number one Achilles heel, beauty. Somehow it got twisted into my mind that if I could make the surface appear beautiful, it would spread throughout. If I could appear okay on the outside, surely I would heal on the inside. If I smiled, I would be happy. If I loved others more, I would love myself more. And honestly? It just doesn't work like that folks. (Shocker, right? Most lessons I learn daily, a kindergartner would roll their eyes at, so its okay to judge me...)
How many times do I have to learn that I love everyone more (including myself) by loving Jesus more? How many times do I have to learn that happiness is fleeting and joy is eternal? How many times will my strive for worldly beauty affect my strive for eternal beauty?
I am an imperfect person. Couldn't possibley be more imperfect. But the truth is, I have been given a gift of the greatest beauty, so far beyond anything this world can offer. And daily I take a shit on that beauty. And the next day it is given back to me, shining and as beautiful as ever. I have been purchased and paid for, I am a SLAVE to freedom. How insanely amazing is that? And still, I strive to find the best product to make my mile-high hair a quarter of an inch closer to my head. Huh.
It almost makes me sad to think about those times, because now when I look at the Art Deco store on Poplar just down the street from Dan West, I see a store filled with tacky, overpriced crap that would never be comfortable or durable. The childhood wonder is gone, and I'm left with a realistic view of the world.
I guess the trick is knowing the truth, and seeing the beauty in it anyway.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
truth.
This is going to sound morbid, but hear me out. Have you ever thought about what the world would be like if you died? How your friends and family would react and how it would affect their life? I feel like that's a sick and twisted thing that everyone thinks about (if you hadn't before, you're thinking about it now). Around the age of middle school, I thought about that scenario a lot (again, I am not suicidal, these are not warning signs. I was a very happy child)-- sometimes I would think about it too much and it would make me weep, which is really weird and twisted to be crying over your own imaginary death... but anyway, I'm getting off topic.
Anyway, these past couple of days, saying goodbye to people and talking about leaving is kinda -- in a semisick way -- like when I imagined how people would react if I died. It sucks to leave and change is a terrifying thing, don't get me wrong. But it does make me feel good in a backhanded way that people are really going to miss me. Because I'm going to miss them so, so much.
Being honest is difficult. One of the more difficult things I've had to do thus far. But you know all those cliches about truth? "Honesty is the best policy." "The truth will set you free." They are kind of like, absolutely accurate. Though I am sad about moving on with my life and leaving Tech, I feel lighter, freer, and just way more awesome than I have in a long time. Lying doesn't really solve anything. Its something I'm really going to work on over the coming months. Because pretending you're Miss Sunshine when you're not feeling that way doesn't really help anyone. I'm not saying I'm going to go around throwing mud at people and flicking everyone off. But I don't think saying "eh" when someone asks me how I am is really going to blow up the world. Which is saying something, because if you had asked me 2 months ago when I wasn't sleeping through the night and living life in constant denial, how I was, I would have grinned, touched your arm, and said "never better."
Lies.
Why do we tell them? To cover our own ass, to fit in, to avoid hurting someone's feelings, to appear as if we have it all together. In general, I justify lying as a general way to not burden anyone else with my problems. You know what? That's bullshit, honestly. Because your friends and family love you despite your bullshit, and they have plenty of their own that you put up with gladly. I love my friends because of their problems, not despite them. So I have to get real. Face things I don't want to.
And breathe.
(It's easier now.)
Anyway, these past couple of days, saying goodbye to people and talking about leaving is kinda -- in a semisick way -- like when I imagined how people would react if I died. It sucks to leave and change is a terrifying thing, don't get me wrong. But it does make me feel good in a backhanded way that people are really going to miss me. Because I'm going to miss them so, so much.
Being honest is difficult. One of the more difficult things I've had to do thus far. But you know all those cliches about truth? "Honesty is the best policy." "The truth will set you free." They are kind of like, absolutely accurate. Though I am sad about moving on with my life and leaving Tech, I feel lighter, freer, and just way more awesome than I have in a long time. Lying doesn't really solve anything. Its something I'm really going to work on over the coming months. Because pretending you're Miss Sunshine when you're not feeling that way doesn't really help anyone. I'm not saying I'm going to go around throwing mud at people and flicking everyone off. But I don't think saying "eh" when someone asks me how I am is really going to blow up the world. Which is saying something, because if you had asked me 2 months ago when I wasn't sleeping through the night and living life in constant denial, how I was, I would have grinned, touched your arm, and said "never better."
Lies.
Why do we tell them? To cover our own ass, to fit in, to avoid hurting someone's feelings, to appear as if we have it all together. In general, I justify lying as a general way to not burden anyone else with my problems. You know what? That's bullshit, honestly. Because your friends and family love you despite your bullshit, and they have plenty of their own that you put up with gladly. I love my friends because of their problems, not despite them. So I have to get real. Face things I don't want to.
And breathe.
(It's easier now.)
Thursday, April 16, 2009
be careful what you wish for...
okay, daughtry's kind of lame...but these lyrics are so accurate they make me sob.
I'm staring out into the night,
Trying to hide the pain.
I'm going to the place where love
And feeling good don't ever cost a thing.
And the pain you feel's a different kind of pain.
Well I'm going home,
Back to the place where I belong,
And where your love has always been enough for me.
I'm not running from.
No, I think you got me all wrong.
I don't regret this life I chose for me.
But these places and these faces are getting old,
So I'm going home.
Well I'm going home.
The miles are getting longer, it seems,
The closer I get to you.
I've not always been the best man or friend for you.
But your love remains true.
And I don't know why.
You always seem to give me another try.
So I'm going home,
Back to the place where I belong,
And where your love has always been enough for me.
I'm not running from.
No, I think you got me all wrong.
I don't regret this life I chose for me.
But these places and these faces are getting old,
Be careful what you wish for,
'Cause you just might get it all.
You just might get it all,
And then some you don't want.
Be careful what you wish for,
'Cause you just might get it all.
You just might get it all, yeah.
Oh, well I'm going home,
Back to the place where I belong,
And where your love has always been enough for me.
I'm not running from.
No, I think you got me all wrong.
I don't regret this life I chose for me.
But these places and these faces are getting old.
I said these places and these faces are getting old,
So I'm going home.
I'm going home.
Change is coming, folks. God is good. I will be soon, too. I have so much hope, its spilling from me, and I feel like I can finally breathe. I feel like everything I have blogged about this semester and every event that has taken place has completely guided me to this decision. It doesn't make me any less terrified. But it gives me peace. I have God's grace (and my parent's). And grace and peace is an excellent way to start.
I'm staring out into the night,
Trying to hide the pain.
I'm going to the place where love
And feeling good don't ever cost a thing.
And the pain you feel's a different kind of pain.
Well I'm going home,
Back to the place where I belong,
And where your love has always been enough for me.
I'm not running from.
No, I think you got me all wrong.
I don't regret this life I chose for me.
But these places and these faces are getting old,
So I'm going home.
Well I'm going home.
The miles are getting longer, it seems,
The closer I get to you.
I've not always been the best man or friend for you.
But your love remains true.
And I don't know why.
You always seem to give me another try.
So I'm going home,
Back to the place where I belong,
And where your love has always been enough for me.
I'm not running from.
No, I think you got me all wrong.
I don't regret this life I chose for me.
But these places and these faces are getting old,
Be careful what you wish for,
'Cause you just might get it all.
You just might get it all,
And then some you don't want.
Be careful what you wish for,
'Cause you just might get it all.
You just might get it all, yeah.
Oh, well I'm going home,
Back to the place where I belong,
And where your love has always been enough for me.
I'm not running from.
No, I think you got me all wrong.
I don't regret this life I chose for me.
But these places and these faces are getting old.
I said these places and these faces are getting old,
So I'm going home.
I'm going home.
Change is coming, folks. God is good. I will be soon, too. I have so much hope, its spilling from me, and I feel like I can finally breathe. I feel like everything I have blogged about this semester and every event that has taken place has completely guided me to this decision. It doesn't make me any less terrified. But it gives me peace. I have God's grace (and my parent's). And grace and peace is an excellent way to start.
Monday, April 13, 2009
fear
Fear.
Its universal, language-less, inevitable, obvious, illogical, and inexplicably complex. And its something that's been plaguing humans from the time that effing Eve plucked that juicy apple of evil from the forbidden tree. Okay, so its not really fair to put that all on Eve, but still. A little self restraint would have been great, Eve. Thanks.
I can't remember ever being as scared as I was last Friday night.
This past week, I decided I had a difficult week, I was a little sick of everything here in Atlanta, and I just wanted to get away from it all: away from homework, away from sorority crap, away from tired routines. As a solution, I decided to drive my sad, injured little Honda to Montgomery, Alabama to visit my favorite aunt and uncle, and just have some general R & R. The weather did not want this for me. I (stupidly) failed to check the weather forecasts before I left around 7:30 after initiation was over, and thus was plunged in between two storms, one in Atlanta and one originating in eastern Alabama. I was literally trapped on the road, with no where to turn but to plunge onward into the storm.
Now, to paint the picture of my emotions clearly, you should know that I am that kid that goes around gathering food, pets, blankets, flashlights, radios, extra batteries, and scoffing parents at the first sound of a siren. We spent many a night stuffed in my closet until the sirens stopped-- me, my father (who's from Kansas and brags about having stood beneath funnel clouds before), my mother, my dog, and two cats. Usually those nights consisted of me going over every word the weather man said in a far more worried tone, my dad staying all of two minutes before he would excuse himself, assuring me he'd be back at the first sign of trouble (the SIREN is the first sign of trouble, DA-AD!), and my mom trying to separate the feuding cats that I would not allow to leave (what, I'm going to let them get blown away like Dorothy's house?). So, very, very healthy fear of storms. One I really haven't shaken.
Back to Friday. First came the rain, steady in its approach. Until I could literally not see anything in front or behind me. I was slowed to 5 mph on the highway, with my emergency lights blinking, unsure whether to stop or continue because I COULD NOT see what anyone in front or behind of me was doing. I kept going at 5 mph, praying I wouldn't hit anyone or get hit. I couldn't pull off the side of the road because I was in the stretch of construction on 85 that last for 29 MILES with those obnoxious concrete blockages that make me feel nervous and claustrophobic at the same time. Trapped. I have never felt more desperate or helpless. I had lost all radio signal and cell signal at this point. It stretched on for what seemed like hours, me screaming "oh my god" and "fuck" intermittently for about 10 minutes.
Then dead calm. Absolutely no rain. I breathed for what felt like the first time. I tuned the radio back in, playing my dad's words, parts from the movie "Twister," and every cliche ever ("calm before the storm", "eye of the storm") in one jumbled heap in my mind. It last 30 creepy minutes-- light rain, pale orangey yellow sky.
Then came the lightning. Its never bothered me before, lightning. That was until I saw a billboard get struck, and set a blaze, and also before it hit the ground and I could almost feel my tires jump off of the pavement from the force of it cracking the ground. Don't like it much more. That lasted a while too, the lightning, without rain, lighting the sky as if it were noon on a clear day. Every time I passed a mile marker with my location, not a second later my radio would declare that particular county in immediate danger. Did I mention that I hadn't passed any exits in, oh, 20 miles?
But the worst was the wind. That came right after the lightning, right after Auburn. Circular wind, blowing me to the side, hard enough that I had my hand turning the wheel almost 30 degrees to keep my car going straight. Literally saw formations of funnel clouds. Never been so scared. I just kept driving and praying aloud because I didn't know what else to do. I finally got to Mary Beth's, after a 5 1/2 road trip from hell that was supposed to be 2 1/2.
The worst part of the trip was the uncertainty and the fact that I was completely alone. Fear is a horrible thing, but it festers and feeds off of darkness and a lonely imagination. Dorothy Thompson once said, "Fear grows in darkness...Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live."
That in itself makes me nervous, because I am so full of fear, I am positively brimming with it. About everything. What I'm going to do with my life. Where I'm going to get my next bit of money. If I will ever get married. When my parents will die. How I'll deal with it. What tomorrow will hold. I know you can't let yourself get bogged down in those questions, but sometimes its just really difficult not to feel as if you a shouldering more than your own weight of fearful questions.
The unknown. Its what most people fear the most. People with the strongest faiths continue to try "live longer" schemes just because they have that hint of doubt-- that small place in the back of their mind that is reserved for the question "What if I'm wrong..?"
Why do we fear the inevitable? 0%. That's the survival rate around here on earth. Not such good odds-- or really, really great ones, depending on your wager. Because, folks, we are absolutely, positively gonna kick the bucket. I fear the inevitable in every aspect of my life (the best definition and tangibility of procrastination I have found), and its so ridiculous. Because I make it WAY worse in my own head than it actually is when it comes into fruition.
Fear comes in so many different forms- eerie quiet, harsh winds, pouring rain, or quick, violent flashes. The form isn't what matters. Its what you do with it, actively. The actions and the confidence you find in yourself (and Christ) is what overcomes the "what ifs."
"Be not afraid of life. Believe that life is worth living, and your belief will help create the fact." -Henry James
Its universal, language-less, inevitable, obvious, illogical, and inexplicably complex. And its something that's been plaguing humans from the time that effing Eve plucked that juicy apple of evil from the forbidden tree. Okay, so its not really fair to put that all on Eve, but still. A little self restraint would have been great, Eve. Thanks.
I can't remember ever being as scared as I was last Friday night.
This past week, I decided I had a difficult week, I was a little sick of everything here in Atlanta, and I just wanted to get away from it all: away from homework, away from sorority crap, away from tired routines. As a solution, I decided to drive my sad, injured little Honda to Montgomery, Alabama to visit my favorite aunt and uncle, and just have some general R & R. The weather did not want this for me. I (stupidly) failed to check the weather forecasts before I left around 7:30 after initiation was over, and thus was plunged in between two storms, one in Atlanta and one originating in eastern Alabama. I was literally trapped on the road, with no where to turn but to plunge onward into the storm.
Now, to paint the picture of my emotions clearly, you should know that I am that kid that goes around gathering food, pets, blankets, flashlights, radios, extra batteries, and scoffing parents at the first sound of a siren. We spent many a night stuffed in my closet until the sirens stopped-- me, my father (who's from Kansas and brags about having stood beneath funnel clouds before), my mother, my dog, and two cats. Usually those nights consisted of me going over every word the weather man said in a far more worried tone, my dad staying all of two minutes before he would excuse himself, assuring me he'd be back at the first sign of trouble (the SIREN is the first sign of trouble, DA-AD!), and my mom trying to separate the feuding cats that I would not allow to leave (what, I'm going to let them get blown away like Dorothy's house?). So, very, very healthy fear of storms. One I really haven't shaken.
Back to Friday. First came the rain, steady in its approach. Until I could literally not see anything in front or behind me. I was slowed to 5 mph on the highway, with my emergency lights blinking, unsure whether to stop or continue because I COULD NOT see what anyone in front or behind of me was doing. I kept going at 5 mph, praying I wouldn't hit anyone or get hit. I couldn't pull off the side of the road because I was in the stretch of construction on 85 that last for 29 MILES with those obnoxious concrete blockages that make me feel nervous and claustrophobic at the same time. Trapped. I have never felt more desperate or helpless. I had lost all radio signal and cell signal at this point. It stretched on for what seemed like hours, me screaming "oh my god" and "fuck" intermittently for about 10 minutes.
Then dead calm. Absolutely no rain. I breathed for what felt like the first time. I tuned the radio back in, playing my dad's words, parts from the movie "Twister," and every cliche ever ("calm before the storm", "eye of the storm") in one jumbled heap in my mind. It last 30 creepy minutes-- light rain, pale orangey yellow sky.
Then came the lightning. Its never bothered me before, lightning. That was until I saw a billboard get struck, and set a blaze, and also before it hit the ground and I could almost feel my tires jump off of the pavement from the force of it cracking the ground. Don't like it much more. That lasted a while too, the lightning, without rain, lighting the sky as if it were noon on a clear day. Every time I passed a mile marker with my location, not a second later my radio would declare that particular county in immediate danger. Did I mention that I hadn't passed any exits in, oh, 20 miles?
But the worst was the wind. That came right after the lightning, right after Auburn. Circular wind, blowing me to the side, hard enough that I had my hand turning the wheel almost 30 degrees to keep my car going straight. Literally saw formations of funnel clouds. Never been so scared. I just kept driving and praying aloud because I didn't know what else to do. I finally got to Mary Beth's, after a 5 1/2 road trip from hell that was supposed to be 2 1/2.
The worst part of the trip was the uncertainty and the fact that I was completely alone. Fear is a horrible thing, but it festers and feeds off of darkness and a lonely imagination. Dorothy Thompson once said, "Fear grows in darkness...Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live."
That in itself makes me nervous, because I am so full of fear, I am positively brimming with it. About everything. What I'm going to do with my life. Where I'm going to get my next bit of money. If I will ever get married. When my parents will die. How I'll deal with it. What tomorrow will hold. I know you can't let yourself get bogged down in those questions, but sometimes its just really difficult not to feel as if you a shouldering more than your own weight of fearful questions.
The unknown. Its what most people fear the most. People with the strongest faiths continue to try "live longer" schemes just because they have that hint of doubt-- that small place in the back of their mind that is reserved for the question "What if I'm wrong..?"
Why do we fear the inevitable? 0%. That's the survival rate around here on earth. Not such good odds-- or really, really great ones, depending on your wager. Because, folks, we are absolutely, positively gonna kick the bucket. I fear the inevitable in every aspect of my life (the best definition and tangibility of procrastination I have found), and its so ridiculous. Because I make it WAY worse in my own head than it actually is when it comes into fruition.
Fear comes in so many different forms- eerie quiet, harsh winds, pouring rain, or quick, violent flashes. The form isn't what matters. Its what you do with it, actively. The actions and the confidence you find in yourself (and Christ) is what overcomes the "what ifs."
"Be not afraid of life. Believe that life is worth living, and your belief will help create the fact." -Henry James
Thursday, March 26, 2009
hats
If this blog was my Grandma Eunice, it would say, "Well, well, if it isn't Liz! It's been a long time." I feel the need to apologize for not penning (er, typing) my thoughts as of late, but then again, I'm fairly certain that no one except me reads this. Oh well. I forgive you, self.
Anyhoo, we're on the week after Spring Break, which really just gives me time to mull over things that happened (or didn't happen) over break. I spent my 10 sublime days off from this fine [mental] institution (just kidding...) in Memphis: home of Elvis, the only BBQ that I will deem "BBQ," and yours truly. The glorious thing about going home for Spring Break is knowing your friends are doing way more fabulous things in places with infinite sunshine and alcohol (sorry for the bitter sarcasm tonight, I just can't help). Okay, so it really wasn't THAT bad going home for break, but it really did suck a little that I had other options and was forced to be "good daughter Liz" and do exactly what my parents wanted me to do. While my parents took off for 6 days to that place with infinite sunshine and alcohol (we'll call it "Florida"), I stayed put with my beautiful, energetic, and kind-of-a-handful dogs, Otto and Zeus. Confused as to why my parents were trading me my Spring Break? Me too.
This rant has a point. I promise.
Sad to be home alone with my only company the speechless variety, I promptly texted my cousins, Maggie and Sara, letting them know that they could frequent the parent-free zone as often as they wanted over the next days (they too were lucky enough to stay home during Spring Break-- high school SB, that is). A few hours later, they were plopped on my sofa, bored and looking for me to entertain them. Though they were sometimes frustrating, sometimes overstayed their welcome, they were the best part of my Spring Break, because I just got to soak in a part of Liz that is completely honest and true: the Liz ("Cousin" to them) that my family knows.
Ever notice how you act one way around your family, one way around your friends, one way with new people, and many different others, based on the situation? Gosh, I hate that I do it, but I'm pretty sure every human on Earth does it. (If there are humans elsewhere, I'm pretty sure they do it to-- that phrase "every human on Earth" was kind of redundant and stupid, sorry. (also sorry for this aside, I should have just deleted it. (any rule for how many parenthetical statements you can have inside one another? (in Math, it's fine, as long as you close all of them.)))) Sorry. I told you, feeling snarky tonight. Anyway, I often wonder, of those various personality hats that I wear, which is the most purely me? Is it just one? A combination of a few? Of them all? None? Interesting, isn't it?
I'm still not sure the answer to that question. (The one before "interesting, isn't it?" because clearly I think its interesting or I wouldn't be wasting my time...) But I can say this much: who I am when I'm home is VERY close to the pure Liz. I guess that's one of my favorite things about going home, because there's no pressure to be cool or impress any one. These people have seen me since diapers-- my uncle still calls me "Weezy" sometimes, a nickname not derived from the rapper, but after my toddler tendency to breathe so heavily while I was walking that my parents could hear me coming down the hall before they could see me.
Back to my cousins. Because I am this "honest Liz" while home, I know that everything I tell my cousins is in its purest form of sincerity too-- I try to avoid the "sage, college advice," mostly because its crap, but also because I hate when people talk down to me like they know everything, especially when they've only been doing something I haven't for a small amount of time. So I got to share my truthful opinions about choosing colleges, majors, whether or not to drink. And sometimes I surprised myself with my opinions. Best revelation: I have never--not once--done something my parents didn't want me to do. Okay, so when I was 8 I stuck my tongue out at my mom and got my mouth washed out with soap. I'm not talking about those kinds of actions. But all of my major (and minor) decisions have been made to favor what my parents thought was right.
Okay, fine, I did vote for (and still support fully) Barack Obama, which my parents viewed negatively. But STILL. I am dying to be my own person and rebel.
The pure fact that I was home, dogsitting, while my parents relaxed in the Keys is prime example of how I have not put this new discovery into action. But one day, I am going to rock their world. Its coming.
Promise.
Anyhoo, we're on the week after Spring Break, which really just gives me time to mull over things that happened (or didn't happen) over break. I spent my 10 sublime days off from this fine [mental] institution (just kidding...) in Memphis: home of Elvis, the only BBQ that I will deem "BBQ," and yours truly. The glorious thing about going home for Spring Break is knowing your friends are doing way more fabulous things in places with infinite sunshine and alcohol (sorry for the bitter sarcasm tonight, I just can't help). Okay, so it really wasn't THAT bad going home for break, but it really did suck a little that I had other options and was forced to be "good daughter Liz" and do exactly what my parents wanted me to do. While my parents took off for 6 days to that place with infinite sunshine and alcohol (we'll call it "Florida"), I stayed put with my beautiful, energetic, and kind-of-a-handful dogs, Otto and Zeus. Confused as to why my parents were trading me my Spring Break? Me too.
This rant has a point. I promise.
Sad to be home alone with my only company the speechless variety, I promptly texted my cousins, Maggie and Sara, letting them know that they could frequent the parent-free zone as often as they wanted over the next days (they too were lucky enough to stay home during Spring Break-- high school SB, that is). A few hours later, they were plopped on my sofa, bored and looking for me to entertain them. Though they were sometimes frustrating, sometimes overstayed their welcome, they were the best part of my Spring Break, because I just got to soak in a part of Liz that is completely honest and true: the Liz ("Cousin" to them) that my family knows.
Ever notice how you act one way around your family, one way around your friends, one way with new people, and many different others, based on the situation? Gosh, I hate that I do it, but I'm pretty sure every human on Earth does it. (If there are humans elsewhere, I'm pretty sure they do it to-- that phrase "every human on Earth" was kind of redundant and stupid, sorry. (also sorry for this aside, I should have just deleted it. (any rule for how many parenthetical statements you can have inside one another? (in Math, it's fine, as long as you close all of them.)))) Sorry. I told you, feeling snarky tonight. Anyway, I often wonder, of those various personality hats that I wear, which is the most purely me? Is it just one? A combination of a few? Of them all? None? Interesting, isn't it?
I'm still not sure the answer to that question. (The one before "interesting, isn't it?" because clearly I think its interesting or I wouldn't be wasting my time...) But I can say this much: who I am when I'm home is VERY close to the pure Liz. I guess that's one of my favorite things about going home, because there's no pressure to be cool or impress any one. These people have seen me since diapers-- my uncle still calls me "Weezy" sometimes, a nickname not derived from the rapper, but after my toddler tendency to breathe so heavily while I was walking that my parents could hear me coming down the hall before they could see me.
Back to my cousins. Because I am this "honest Liz" while home, I know that everything I tell my cousins is in its purest form of sincerity too-- I try to avoid the "sage, college advice," mostly because its crap, but also because I hate when people talk down to me like they know everything, especially when they've only been doing something I haven't for a small amount of time. So I got to share my truthful opinions about choosing colleges, majors, whether or not to drink. And sometimes I surprised myself with my opinions. Best revelation: I have never--not once--done something my parents didn't want me to do. Okay, so when I was 8 I stuck my tongue out at my mom and got my mouth washed out with soap. I'm not talking about those kinds of actions. But all of my major (and minor) decisions have been made to favor what my parents thought was right.
Okay, fine, I did vote for (and still support fully) Barack Obama, which my parents viewed negatively. But STILL. I am dying to be my own person and rebel.
The pure fact that I was home, dogsitting, while my parents relaxed in the Keys is prime example of how I have not put this new discovery into action. But one day, I am going to rock their world. Its coming.
Promise.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
music [addition]
On the subject of my last post...
If you only listen to one thing I ever say, listen to this: you MUST listen to THIS.
So EFFING FANTASTIC.
I haven't been this excited about a song since I first heard "Oceans."
If you only listen to one thing I ever say, listen to this: you MUST listen to THIS.
So EFFING FANTASTIC.
I haven't been this excited about a song since I first heard "Oceans."
Friday, February 27, 2009
music
Its two in the morning on a Friday night, I have to get up really ridiculously early tomorrow morning. I should be sleeping. What am I doing? Blogging. Naturally, of course. Its when I shouldn't that I get the most inspiration and thoughts going on. I could lie awake, going over them in my head, or I could "blog it out." The later, clearly, is my choice.
So, tonight, I have been thinking about music a lot. Its a big passion in my life, I can say confidently. Interesting since I don't remotely play, read, or compose music-- yet, I am music's biggest fan. If I could, I would have a big foam finger in its honor. I love just about everything. Pop. Classic Rock. Rap. Emo. Punk. Classical. R&B. Jazz. The only think I can't swallow is Country-- it's just not my cup of tea. I love finding out all different kinds of music. A little too much, since my computer's been hating on my capacity of songs lately.
Music PAINTS my emotions. Nothing reveals my mood and my actions more clearly than what I have playing in my car. Mutemath means I'm ready to party. Death Cab means I'm introspective and avoiding something. The Format means almost anything, but usually that its a Friday and a beautiful day for rolling the windows down and having friends in the car. The Stones means I'm homesick. Justin Timberlake means I'm peppy (and probably have Gwen in my car). Rap means I'm happy and feeling a little rebellious. Ben Kweller means I'm pissed off and done with rules and society. 80s music is when I am missing Cristin. The Fray when I'm feeling nostalgic. Fall Out Boy is generally reserved for driving around Memphis, usually going really fast on Nonconnah.
And I judge people on their tastes. Boy, do I judge them. It's the one thing I can say I openly admit to judging about people, their music taste. Very few people impress me when it comes to what they listen to. And here's the key: its not the range of music you listen to. For me, its all about the authenticity. The knowledge you have.
Confused? Let me articulate with an example:
I don't repect this:
Person A: Oh, I am so in to [insert band-- we'll call it something really trendy, like 'The Ripped Paper Hearts' or something] right now.
Me: Oh, yeah? I've heard a few of their songs....
Person A (in an all knowing, come on now, kind of tone): Oh man, you totally have to get into them. [Proceeds to name off the top selling tracks of the band off their iTunes page, usually 3, which, in their mind, marks them as their biggest, most hardcore fan. Much patting of themself on the back].
I REALLY respect this (its a subtle change):
Person B: What kind of music do you like?
Me: All kinds. I guess my favorites are the Goo Goo Dolls and the Format.
Person B: Yes! I love them too-- well, I like the Goo Goo Dolls, but their latest stuff isn't the greatest- I loved "Name" back in the day, and I really like "Big Machine." The Format's great too-- gosh I wish they hadn't broken up! Fun just isn't as cool of a sound as the Format had going on. Have you ever heard Vampire Weekend? They're similar-- you might like them. Their early stuff isn't great, but there are a few gems. I love them because their stuff makes you feel really good about yourself.
Me: Awesome! I'll have to check that out.
..........
Gosh, does the difference even make sense? In my mind, it does. And its not even about liking music I like-- there are a few people that like completely different stuff than I do, that I think of as having excellent taste. Because they like it because its what appeals to them-- not because all their friends like it, or because they were told it was cool. Or because it was playing at Starbucks or on the latest soundtrack of a Zach Braff/Adam Brody movie.
Go ahead, like commercial stuff. Like country. Like indie rock. I don't care at all. Just do your homework, and have passion about why you like them. Not just because your trendy friend told you it was cool. Be authentic, know why you like them. You don't have to like all their stuff. You should know how they sound live, because thats the best indication of an artist's ability. Don't be a snob. Share when asked. Don't force your taste on others.
I guess sometimes the things in our life that we do, we tend to hate when we see them in other people. Its easier to hate it in them then change it in yourself. So maybe this whole tirade is just a glimpse into what I hate about myself. I don't know.
Go out and find new music and fall in love with it. Its so important.
[FYI: Top played songs on my iTunes: "She Doesn't Get It"- The Format, "The Way I Are"-Timbaland, "Forever"-Chris Brown, "Get Over It"-OK GO, and "Ooh La"-The Kooks].
So, tonight, I have been thinking about music a lot. Its a big passion in my life, I can say confidently. Interesting since I don't remotely play, read, or compose music-- yet, I am music's biggest fan. If I could, I would have a big foam finger in its honor. I love just about everything. Pop. Classic Rock. Rap. Emo. Punk. Classical. R&B. Jazz. The only think I can't swallow is Country-- it's just not my cup of tea. I love finding out all different kinds of music. A little too much, since my computer's been hating on my capacity of songs lately.
Music PAINTS my emotions. Nothing reveals my mood and my actions more clearly than what I have playing in my car. Mutemath means I'm ready to party. Death Cab means I'm introspective and avoiding something. The Format means almost anything, but usually that its a Friday and a beautiful day for rolling the windows down and having friends in the car. The Stones means I'm homesick. Justin Timberlake means I'm peppy (and probably have Gwen in my car). Rap means I'm happy and feeling a little rebellious. Ben Kweller means I'm pissed off and done with rules and society. 80s music is when I am missing Cristin. The Fray when I'm feeling nostalgic. Fall Out Boy is generally reserved for driving around Memphis, usually going really fast on Nonconnah.
And I judge people on their tastes. Boy, do I judge them. It's the one thing I can say I openly admit to judging about people, their music taste. Very few people impress me when it comes to what they listen to. And here's the key: its not the range of music you listen to. For me, its all about the authenticity. The knowledge you have.
Confused? Let me articulate with an example:
I don't repect this:
Person A: Oh, I am so in to [insert band-- we'll call it something really trendy, like 'The Ripped Paper Hearts' or something] right now.
Me: Oh, yeah? I've heard a few of their songs....
Person A (in an all knowing, come on now, kind of tone): Oh man, you totally have to get into them. [Proceeds to name off the top selling tracks of the band off their iTunes page, usually 3, which, in their mind, marks them as their biggest, most hardcore fan. Much patting of themself on the back].
I REALLY respect this (its a subtle change):
Person B: What kind of music do you like?
Me: All kinds. I guess my favorites are the Goo Goo Dolls and the Format.
Person B: Yes! I love them too-- well, I like the Goo Goo Dolls, but their latest stuff isn't the greatest- I loved "Name" back in the day, and I really like "Big Machine." The Format's great too-- gosh I wish they hadn't broken up! Fun just isn't as cool of a sound as the Format had going on. Have you ever heard Vampire Weekend? They're similar-- you might like them. Their early stuff isn't great, but there are a few gems. I love them because their stuff makes you feel really good about yourself.
Me: Awesome! I'll have to check that out.
..........
Gosh, does the difference even make sense? In my mind, it does. And its not even about liking music I like-- there are a few people that like completely different stuff than I do, that I think of as having excellent taste. Because they like it because its what appeals to them-- not because all their friends like it, or because they were told it was cool. Or because it was playing at Starbucks or on the latest soundtrack of a Zach Braff/Adam Brody movie.
Go ahead, like commercial stuff. Like country. Like indie rock. I don't care at all. Just do your homework, and have passion about why you like them. Not just because your trendy friend told you it was cool. Be authentic, know why you like them. You don't have to like all their stuff. You should know how they sound live, because thats the best indication of an artist's ability. Don't be a snob. Share when asked. Don't force your taste on others.
I guess sometimes the things in our life that we do, we tend to hate when we see them in other people. Its easier to hate it in them then change it in yourself. So maybe this whole tirade is just a glimpse into what I hate about myself. I don't know.
Go out and find new music and fall in love with it. Its so important.
[FYI: Top played songs on my iTunes: "She Doesn't Get It"- The Format, "The Way I Are"-Timbaland, "Forever"-Chris Brown, "Get Over It"-OK GO, and "Ooh La"-The Kooks].
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
stagnate
This has just been a suck ass day. No other word for it. I feel like I'm getting really sick, which sucks because its almost my birthday. Today I'm just really down in the dumps and I can't get anything good from it-- just negative thoughts, which has made my day even worse, because I get frusterated with myself for not being able to be positive. I just feel so stationary. Like I'm not doing ANYTHING with my life, and everyone else is blaze ahead at 90 mph. I know its not fair or productive to compare myself to other people, but MAN. I can't stop. Everyone is succeeding, and I just am not.
Bleh, like I say, only negatives tonight. I'm sorry. Reminds me of in Love Actually when Alan Rickman gives Emma Thompson the Joni Mitchell CD he got that she thinks is the gold necklace she found in his pocket the week before (breaks my heart every time). He signs the card "Sorry I'm such a grumpy bugger. XOXO"
Sorry I'm such a grumpy bugger.
XOXO.
Bleh, like I say, only negatives tonight. I'm sorry. Reminds me of in Love Actually when Alan Rickman gives Emma Thompson the Joni Mitchell CD he got that she thinks is the gold necklace she found in his pocket the week before (breaks my heart every time). He signs the card "Sorry I'm such a grumpy bugger. XOXO"
Sorry I'm such a grumpy bugger.
XOXO.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
passion
Man, I have been a blogging-fool this week. I guess that just means I have a lot floating around in my head this week. Its just one of those weeks.
Tonight's topic is a little less heavy then previous ones (well, i don't know if you call bad language a 'heavy' subjuct, but whatever, you know what I mean). Anyway, last night Gwen and I were talking about how we're not really sure what our passions are. A little scary, in my opinion to not know what you're passionate about, but I think that's just what stage we are at in our lives. For me, its hard to define the difference between something I'm passionate about and something that entertains me. I love movies. But am I passionate about them, or am I entertained by them? I mean, during the election there were certain topics I was "passionate" about-- pro-choice, pro-gay rights, pro-alternative fuels. But I don't think that those are things I am truly passionate about in day-to-day life. Does that make sense?
Dictionary.com defines "passion" as 'any powerful or compelling emotion or feeling, as love or hate.' Not the ultimate source on the true meaning of the word, I know, but definitely a jumping off point.
What do I hate? Celine Dion. Chocolate-mint flavored things. Birds. Body Odor. Laundry. What do I love? Fall. Pumpkins. My friends. Jesus. Diet Coke.
But am I PASSIONATE about those things? I don't know. In Christianity, we talk about passion a lot. But I just can't even grasp the passion of love it would take to die for someone else. Would I die for Jesus? I would like to think so, but I'm not really sure. If I could choose to have only one thing in my life, would I choose Jesus? If I had to abandon my entire family and friends to declare myself a follower or Christ, would I? I've never had to make those decisions, and frankly the thoughts of my answers terrify me. I guess that's what makes me all the more thankful for His grace, because I am so, so, so incredibly undeserving. I am so unworthy of being saved, and yet I am free from persecution. Its really unfair. Why me? Why can't kids in Africa or Israel or Iran or China have that same freedom? Why can I say I'm a Christian and be accepted socially, but people DIE for it abroad? I'm getting off topic, and quite heavy. Sorry, I'm a liar too, one of my biggest recurring sins.
I would love to be described as a passionate person-- I want to be. There are so many things in this life to be passionate about, because we're only here so long, ya know? I guess with passion comes a certain amount of boldness and risk. Thats what it comes down to-- when you're passionate about something there is a risk there-- someone is always not going to like that you're passionate about that, or is always going to disagree with you. I like to get along with everyone and have every one like me. When you're passionate about something, there is a vulnerability there that I don't enjoy. Its easier to live in a neutral world-- you don't piss anyone off. But I'm tired of it. I can't live in a khaki world anymore. I want my life painted bold crimson and my words colored crisp chartreuse. I want to see and talk with the world.
Now how do I go about doing that?
Jeez, that wasn't light. I'm sorry.
Tonight's topic is a little less heavy then previous ones (well, i don't know if you call bad language a 'heavy' subjuct, but whatever, you know what I mean). Anyway, last night Gwen and I were talking about how we're not really sure what our passions are. A little scary, in my opinion to not know what you're passionate about, but I think that's just what stage we are at in our lives. For me, its hard to define the difference between something I'm passionate about and something that entertains me. I love movies. But am I passionate about them, or am I entertained by them? I mean, during the election there were certain topics I was "passionate" about-- pro-choice, pro-gay rights, pro-alternative fuels. But I don't think that those are things I am truly passionate about in day-to-day life. Does that make sense?
Dictionary.com defines "passion" as 'any powerful or compelling emotion or feeling, as love or hate.' Not the ultimate source on the true meaning of the word, I know, but definitely a jumping off point.
What do I hate? Celine Dion. Chocolate-mint flavored things. Birds. Body Odor. Laundry. What do I love? Fall. Pumpkins. My friends. Jesus. Diet Coke.
But am I PASSIONATE about those things? I don't know. In Christianity, we talk about passion a lot. But I just can't even grasp the passion of love it would take to die for someone else. Would I die for Jesus? I would like to think so, but I'm not really sure. If I could choose to have only one thing in my life, would I choose Jesus? If I had to abandon my entire family and friends to declare myself a follower or Christ, would I? I've never had to make those decisions, and frankly the thoughts of my answers terrify me. I guess that's what makes me all the more thankful for His grace, because I am so, so, so incredibly undeserving. I am so unworthy of being saved, and yet I am free from persecution. Its really unfair. Why me? Why can't kids in Africa or Israel or Iran or China have that same freedom? Why can I say I'm a Christian and be accepted socially, but people DIE for it abroad? I'm getting off topic, and quite heavy. Sorry, I'm a liar too, one of my biggest recurring sins.
I would love to be described as a passionate person-- I want to be. There are so many things in this life to be passionate about, because we're only here so long, ya know? I guess with passion comes a certain amount of boldness and risk. Thats what it comes down to-- when you're passionate about something there is a risk there-- someone is always not going to like that you're passionate about that, or is always going to disagree with you. I like to get along with everyone and have every one like me. When you're passionate about something, there is a vulnerability there that I don't enjoy. Its easier to live in a neutral world-- you don't piss anyone off. But I'm tired of it. I can't live in a khaki world anymore. I want my life painted bold crimson and my words colored crisp chartreuse. I want to see and talk with the world.
Now how do I go about doing that?
Jeez, that wasn't light. I'm sorry.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
foul language
So, all jokes aside, I try to live my life as a humble servant of Christ. Everything I do is ultimately intended to serve Him (though I fail daily, but hey thats humanity for ya), but there are a few things that I do that I know don't serve Him at all, I know this, and still continue the behavior. (At this point, my mom would chime in with "thats called sin, honey!" Thanks, mom in my head). Because some things I know I should be convicted about, but it is so hard.
Cursing is one of these things.
Well, the main one, really.
I love to cuss.
I'm not a violent person, I hold most of my anger inside, or let it roll from my chest-- in general, things don't bother me that much. But some times, it feels SO GOOD to drop a nice f-bomb. I'm talking, really-best-day-of-my-life-just-got-a-free-pony-nice. Its even really, really bad-boy sexy to me to hear a guy say it-- not every other word, because then it just loses its impact, but to hear a guy who doesn't normally cuss let one go in the midst of heightened anger. Man. It does it for me. Is that really screwed up and twisted? I'm pretty sure it is. But something about the accepted-yet-taboo nature of bad words just makes me feel gooey inside. Gosh, that's horrible.
I remember a specific time when I was younger, maybe 7 or so (that's when I had my most brilliant thoughts, age 7) my mom and I were in the car, running an errand. The radio was playing, the rock station (some kids listened to wee sing when they were growing up. Me? I knew all the words to "Stairway to Heaven" and "Jumping Jack Flash"). Anyway, the djs were talking about something and one of them used a bad word-- shit, I think, but I'm not sure. It could have been a tame "damn," I'm not positive. I just know that whatever word they used, I had recently learned was filthy and never to be used my a kid like me. So, of course I told my mom this. "That word is BAD." She told me that people used bad words when they couldn't come up with better words to fill the space with. That bad words were for ignorant, uncreative people that lacked imagination and color in their speech. It was then, sitting on the tan, fake leather of my mom's gold Honda Accord that I vowed to her that I would never cuss when I grew up.
I remember the first time I broke that vow. I was in sixth grade, I think (that's when I had the most scandals, sixth grade). My friend Kelly had started using the word "crap" and I thought it made her sound grown-up and cool. Crap wasn't reeeaallly a bad word, I reasoned. And Kelly didn't seem ignorant or uncreative (we played newly invented games, like sardines, all the time at her house!). I decided it was okay, even though my mom didn't let me say it at home. I used it at school, and relished the power it seemed to give my speech. I loved the way my "enemy" Rachel Schultz flinched when I told her she was a crappy friend. I felt totally grown-up.
I often wonder if 7-year old Liz Schulzke would look at me now and be disappointed. I hope not. I don't cuss when I lack imagination or intelligence. I cuss when it is the appropriate word and I won't be offending the company I'm in. 12-year old sixth grader Liz Schulzke probably wouldn't think I was cool and mature when I cuss, because I don't do it in cool situations or around cool, high profile people. I let a big "DAMN IT!" fly when I stumble out of bed in the morning and stub my toe against my dresser. I let an "ass" slip from my lips when dishing to my best friends about a particular professor or a jerky lab partner.
Yet, when George Clooney says "You're fucked!" at the end of "Michael Clayton" I just about lose my mind.
He is soooooo cool (and totally mature).
Guess I really haven't come that far.
Cursing is one of these things.
Well, the main one, really.
I love to cuss.
I'm not a violent person, I hold most of my anger inside, or let it roll from my chest-- in general, things don't bother me that much. But some times, it feels SO GOOD to drop a nice f-bomb. I'm talking, really-best-day-of-my-life-just-got-a-free-pony-nice. Its even really, really bad-boy sexy to me to hear a guy say it-- not every other word, because then it just loses its impact, but to hear a guy who doesn't normally cuss let one go in the midst of heightened anger. Man. It does it for me. Is that really screwed up and twisted? I'm pretty sure it is. But something about the accepted-yet-taboo nature of bad words just makes me feel gooey inside. Gosh, that's horrible.
I remember a specific time when I was younger, maybe 7 or so (that's when I had my most brilliant thoughts, age 7) my mom and I were in the car, running an errand. The radio was playing, the rock station (some kids listened to wee sing when they were growing up. Me? I knew all the words to "Stairway to Heaven" and "Jumping Jack Flash"). Anyway, the djs were talking about something and one of them used a bad word-- shit, I think, but I'm not sure. It could have been a tame "damn," I'm not positive. I just know that whatever word they used, I had recently learned was filthy and never to be used my a kid like me. So, of course I told my mom this. "That word is BAD." She told me that people used bad words when they couldn't come up with better words to fill the space with. That bad words were for ignorant, uncreative people that lacked imagination and color in their speech. It was then, sitting on the tan, fake leather of my mom's gold Honda Accord that I vowed to her that I would never cuss when I grew up.
I remember the first time I broke that vow. I was in sixth grade, I think (that's when I had the most scandals, sixth grade). My friend Kelly had started using the word "crap" and I thought it made her sound grown-up and cool. Crap wasn't reeeaallly a bad word, I reasoned. And Kelly didn't seem ignorant or uncreative (we played newly invented games, like sardines, all the time at her house!). I decided it was okay, even though my mom didn't let me say it at home. I used it at school, and relished the power it seemed to give my speech. I loved the way my "enemy" Rachel Schultz flinched when I told her she was a crappy friend. I felt totally grown-up.
I often wonder if 7-year old Liz Schulzke would look at me now and be disappointed. I hope not. I don't cuss when I lack imagination or intelligence. I cuss when it is the appropriate word and I won't be offending the company I'm in. 12-year old sixth grader Liz Schulzke probably wouldn't think I was cool and mature when I cuss, because I don't do it in cool situations or around cool, high profile people. I let a big "DAMN IT!" fly when I stumble out of bed in the morning and stub my toe against my dresser. I let an "ass" slip from my lips when dishing to my best friends about a particular professor or a jerky lab partner.
Yet, when George Clooney says "You're fucked!" at the end of "Michael Clayton" I just about lose my mind.
He is soooooo cool (and totally mature).
Guess I really haven't come that far.
Monday, February 16, 2009
alcohol
My birthday's in a couple weeks, and celebrating it early with my mom this weekend got me to thinking about the fact that I will VERY shortly be 21 and "legal." What a bizarre, bizarre feeling. Something I've gone my whole life avoiding like the plague will now be socially acceptable for me to partake in-- I will be offered it at relatives houses from now on, and attempt to not feel awkward and unauthentic when I refuse, assuring my aunts and uncles that, truly, I don't drink much or like the taste. Hopefully I can do this convincingly and avoid coming off like the stunned teenager that overcompensates to convince you she's not into it, "OH! OH NO! I don't drink--why would you ever think that?? [insert nervous laughter].
If I can be honest-- and I feel I can, in the anonymous (or not so anonymous) blogesphere-- I am scared shitless. I don't know how I will react-- if I will be a huge ass, mean, annoying, loud, sleepy, grumpy. It makes me nervous to not feel incontrol or on top of my thoughts and secrets. But most of all, I really don't want to like it. That's what scares me the most. I don't want to like the warming sensation in my stomache or the relaxedness of my muscles. I don't want to turn into my aunt. Or my uncle. Or my grandma. Or my grandpa. Or my mom. I don't want to struggle, destroy my life and others around me, live in regret, and finally turn my life around when I'm halfway through it because of an addiction to a substance that is so ingrained in my family history and blood its terrifying.
I have a unique quality that my mom, aunt, uncle, and grandparents never had when they were growing up though: perspective. I've seen alcohol destroy people-- and have seen the growth and healing process. And I've seen good come out-- I've seen hope. Something my mother never saw. I saw my mom, my aunt, my uncle, and my grandparents conquer and cope with a disease that 85% of people who have it let consume them.
I should not drink. That would make things far easier. Knowing I have a history, and a great chance of having the disease myself, I shouldn't drink, and just live my life without. The problem with my personality is I'm a trier. I test waters. I can't live my life knowing if I didn't do something because I wasn't supposed to or if I was just too scared.
I'm curious. That's what it all comes down to. I don't see what everyone else sees in alcohol. Probably because I hate it so much, because its ruined so many of my happy memories with its tarnish, and hurtful images. I've never seen the good side, and I so desparately want to. I want to be part of that club that can just crack open a beer to "relax." But I never will. I will forever crack open that beer, and to the very last drop wonder if I like it too much. If I have a problem. If its ruining my life.
I wouldn't wish it any differently. I think a healthy fear is good. I'm not sure I have a healthy fear, but going through what my mom did only brought us closer and changed her as a person for the better. So I definitely wouldn't change it. It just puts a bit of pressure on that 21st birthday and every decision I make in relation to alcohol later on.
Welcome to the grown up world, Liz Schulzke. Here, have an iPhone as a reassurance prize.
If I can be honest-- and I feel I can, in the anonymous (or not so anonymous) blogesphere-- I am scared shitless. I don't know how I will react-- if I will be a huge ass, mean, annoying, loud, sleepy, grumpy. It makes me nervous to not feel incontrol or on top of my thoughts and secrets. But most of all, I really don't want to like it. That's what scares me the most. I don't want to like the warming sensation in my stomache or the relaxedness of my muscles. I don't want to turn into my aunt. Or my uncle. Or my grandma. Or my grandpa. Or my mom. I don't want to struggle, destroy my life and others around me, live in regret, and finally turn my life around when I'm halfway through it because of an addiction to a substance that is so ingrained in my family history and blood its terrifying.
I have a unique quality that my mom, aunt, uncle, and grandparents never had when they were growing up though: perspective. I've seen alcohol destroy people-- and have seen the growth and healing process. And I've seen good come out-- I've seen hope. Something my mother never saw. I saw my mom, my aunt, my uncle, and my grandparents conquer and cope with a disease that 85% of people who have it let consume them.
I should not drink. That would make things far easier. Knowing I have a history, and a great chance of having the disease myself, I shouldn't drink, and just live my life without. The problem with my personality is I'm a trier. I test waters. I can't live my life knowing if I didn't do something because I wasn't supposed to or if I was just too scared.
I'm curious. That's what it all comes down to. I don't see what everyone else sees in alcohol. Probably because I hate it so much, because its ruined so many of my happy memories with its tarnish, and hurtful images. I've never seen the good side, and I so desparately want to. I want to be part of that club that can just crack open a beer to "relax." But I never will. I will forever crack open that beer, and to the very last drop wonder if I like it too much. If I have a problem. If its ruining my life.
I wouldn't wish it any differently. I think a healthy fear is good. I'm not sure I have a healthy fear, but going through what my mom did only brought us closer and changed her as a person for the better. So I definitely wouldn't change it. It just puts a bit of pressure on that 21st birthday and every decision I make in relation to alcohol later on.
Welcome to the grown up world, Liz Schulzke. Here, have an iPhone as a reassurance prize.
Monday, February 2, 2009
sleep
simply put, i haven't been sleeping.
though its not in the least a new occurance in the life of Liz Schulzke, it does worry me. because i can see the different ways its affecting me. and not only that, but i'm not quuuuuite sure what brought it on. insomnia, at its finest, usually strikes me during the summer or the holidays, when i have nothing to work for and am kinding avoiding the world. you know? whenever i get extremely lazy, i can never sleep, because i haven't done anything to make myself tired. eek. so not having had an obvious trigger, i am starting to develop a bit of anxiety towards the issue. plus, i'm getting kind of sick of living my life in a blurred version of reality.
sleep and i have had a very dangerous relationship all of my life-- i can trace it back to the crib. my parents would have parties with tons of their friends, and when mom would drop me off in my room (of course hours earlier than i would have liked), i would pout, refusing to let her leave, clutching her finger in my fist until i fell asleep, hating not being the center of attention and life of the party. its like that even to this day-- i hate missing things, so i put off everything that will make me miss out-- and usually thats sleep. my days in school did not improve the distaste for slumber-- in preschool and kindergarten, i was constantly moved during nap time, frequently pulling others into the punishment i got for talking while i was supposed to be resting. in middle school, i stayed up late, taking advantage of my "own line" telephone, chatting with friends about crushes and makeup. high school brought an entirely different focus: the idea of procrastination and doing school work-- that i should have started hours earlier-- into the night. anyone whos set foot on a college campus knows that the idea of sleep doesn't exactly ooze from the population. So as you can see, my history doesn't do me any favors.
I find, however, when you don't sleep through the night (or even attempt too...), you get way more done than the average human. which gets me to wondering why we're made that way-- that we are FORCED to waste a third of our day lying there, not doing anything but closing our eyes. i know the science behind it-- your brain needs those hours to go over everything it learned that day, almost like a hard-drive backing up its files (so that's why its been harder to processing things lately...;)). so i get that, but WHY did God make us this way? i won't get all religious (i have an entire other blog for that specific purpose, so no worries), but when i was thinking about it earlier in the week, i asked some of my sorority sisters on their opinions. i got lots of answers-- sabbath, solitude, reverence. they all make sense in their own way--but the answer my heart say "yes that's it!" to is that its for humility. knowing we have limits that we simply can't avoid-- air, water, the occasional meal, and sleep all limit our ability to function at a normal level (some maybe a little more quickly...), proving to us how truly earthly we are. how mundane, limited, and dependent we are on the world around us.
thinking about all these things make me really look forward to heaven-- when i get to go there. (i promise i'm not looking to kill myself, that wasn't a warning sign or anything, i promise). because in heaven, i won't be limited by these earthly ties, i won't get moved to the corner of the room so that i don't disturb the others with my chatter. i can talk to as many people as i want forever and ever. sweet.
jeez, the thought of that makes me a little sleepy.
great.
though its not in the least a new occurance in the life of Liz Schulzke, it does worry me. because i can see the different ways its affecting me. and not only that, but i'm not quuuuuite sure what brought it on. insomnia, at its finest, usually strikes me during the summer or the holidays, when i have nothing to work for and am kinding avoiding the world. you know? whenever i get extremely lazy, i can never sleep, because i haven't done anything to make myself tired. eek. so not having had an obvious trigger, i am starting to develop a bit of anxiety towards the issue. plus, i'm getting kind of sick of living my life in a blurred version of reality.
sleep and i have had a very dangerous relationship all of my life-- i can trace it back to the crib. my parents would have parties with tons of their friends, and when mom would drop me off in my room (of course hours earlier than i would have liked), i would pout, refusing to let her leave, clutching her finger in my fist until i fell asleep, hating not being the center of attention and life of the party. its like that even to this day-- i hate missing things, so i put off everything that will make me miss out-- and usually thats sleep. my days in school did not improve the distaste for slumber-- in preschool and kindergarten, i was constantly moved during nap time, frequently pulling others into the punishment i got for talking while i was supposed to be resting. in middle school, i stayed up late, taking advantage of my "own line" telephone, chatting with friends about crushes and makeup. high school brought an entirely different focus: the idea of procrastination and doing school work-- that i should have started hours earlier-- into the night. anyone whos set foot on a college campus knows that the idea of sleep doesn't exactly ooze from the population. So as you can see, my history doesn't do me any favors.
I find, however, when you don't sleep through the night (or even attempt too...), you get way more done than the average human. which gets me to wondering why we're made that way-- that we are FORCED to waste a third of our day lying there, not doing anything but closing our eyes. i know the science behind it-- your brain needs those hours to go over everything it learned that day, almost like a hard-drive backing up its files (so that's why its been harder to processing things lately...;)). so i get that, but WHY did God make us this way? i won't get all religious (i have an entire other blog for that specific purpose, so no worries), but when i was thinking about it earlier in the week, i asked some of my sorority sisters on their opinions. i got lots of answers-- sabbath, solitude, reverence. they all make sense in their own way--but the answer my heart say "yes that's it!" to is that its for humility. knowing we have limits that we simply can't avoid-- air, water, the occasional meal, and sleep all limit our ability to function at a normal level (some maybe a little more quickly...), proving to us how truly earthly we are. how mundane, limited, and dependent we are on the world around us.
thinking about all these things make me really look forward to heaven-- when i get to go there. (i promise i'm not looking to kill myself, that wasn't a warning sign or anything, i promise). because in heaven, i won't be limited by these earthly ties, i won't get moved to the corner of the room so that i don't disturb the others with my chatter. i can talk to as many people as i want forever and ever. sweet.
jeez, the thought of that makes me a little sleepy.
great.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
trash
i'm pretty convinced that my apartment is housing some kind of magical creature.
i have no idea what he looks like, but i do know that in the middle of the night, he sneaks out of his little room--wherever that is in our apartment--and he creates all kinds of debris. after running a muck with the trash, he stuffs it into our white plastic garbage bags, making sure to get them as full as possible before throwing them into a pile by our bar stools. after filling at least two bags, he shoves as much trash as he can into the current bag in our can, and leaves it overflowing from the lid. grinning, he scurries back into his little hole right before drinking all of the water out of our brita water jugs and leaving them empty on the counter. then, i get up, and cannot believe my eyes. must be a magical creature, right? couldn't possibly be my roommates...
i have no idea what he looks like, but i do know that in the middle of the night, he sneaks out of his little room--wherever that is in our apartment--and he creates all kinds of debris. after running a muck with the trash, he stuffs it into our white plastic garbage bags, making sure to get them as full as possible before throwing them into a pile by our bar stools. after filling at least two bags, he shoves as much trash as he can into the current bag in our can, and leaves it overflowing from the lid. grinning, he scurries back into his little hole right before drinking all of the water out of our brita water jugs and leaving them empty on the counter. then, i get up, and cannot believe my eyes. must be a magical creature, right? couldn't possibly be my roommates...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
