I am...a New Yorker

[Previous entry: "Remembering the Songs"]

Sunday, February 23, 2003

The sidebar stayed in bed most of the day, thinking dirty thoughts about a certain someone.

I am...not sure if I give the wrong idea of myself here. For the most part, I write to figure out what I think, rather than already having a plan of what I want to prove. Yes, I could very well complain endlessly about the painful facts of my life -- abused, used, unappreciated in my time, unsure of how to put my dream into action (thanks to Howard Jones' album and song for that turn of phrase).

Yet, sometimes the worst things happen to open us up in ways that allow us to grow, the emotional and spiritual equivalent of "when life hands you lemons, make lemonade."

As I walked home tonight, I thought about something I wrote to K, about all this pressure I've put on myself to get my life together in the next few years because I am destined to have a child alone and the clock is ticking. I've been aware of this since I was 7 or 8, in the same way I'd earlier been aware I was a writer. There was no "lightbulb moment," I just always knew.

So then I got to thinking how out of whack perspective can get and how sometimes people can view their children as just another accessory, as an extension of their own ego. I thought about the DeBolts and their international family of children with myriad physical limitations. I always admired that and wanted to some day be capable of doing the same, to care for the children no one wants.

I am not here to glibly portray myself as happy, wonderful, perfect, etc. as I've seen in certain journals. The only thing I can promise is truth, as best as I can see and express it, subject to revision.

[Next entry: "Bemused"]
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