Tag: life

Thoughts Crashing Into Each Other.

The other day, standing in the shower, for a brief moment – I seriously started thinking about stomach surgery.  Packing up a little car, going for a ride, talking to a doctor, and having surgery to shrink my football stomach down to a lemon.

In that moment, I quit.

I quit wanting to try, wanting to prove people wrong, and wanting to be proud of my weight loss.  In that moment I decided that I will never pull the weight off, and that I’ll be obese the rest of my life.  (Even if I don’t want to be.)  I decided that I was only fooling myself into thinking that I can do it.  (Even though a few years ago I was doing it and a few months ago, I was doing it.)  I decided that the journey was too long and if I got the surgery that it would help and take away half the battle.  I’d go down one hundred pounds so quick that I would have the energy, and the oompth I’m missing out on.  I’d probably be taken off some medications and have a different outlook on life.

I got out of the shower and stood in front of the mirror and stared at myself.  I looked at all the extra that I have.  I lifted my arms and looked at my sides, I turned and looked at my back.  I felt tears, but I didn’t cry.  I didn’t let the feeling overtake me and I didn’t let the tears win.  I dried off, got dressed (in my black t-shirt and black shorts, which I wear all the time because nothing else fits and I cannot afford clothes that fit me), and sat on my bed – in the dark.

I started thinking about life and things I want to see, or accomplish, or feel, or live.  I started thinking about complications, and possible outcomes after surgery.  I started thinking about that conversation I’d missing out on when someone says, “oh wow, you’ve lost a lot of weight.”  I remembered that I always wanted to say, “Thank you, it’s taken a lot, but well worth it.”  I think about how the conversation would be different if I have the surgery:

“Oh wow, you’ve lost a lot of weight.  You look great!”
“Thank you, but I cheated, I had the surgery knowing damn good && well that I could do it on my own.”
The look on their face will be priceless, their smile would falter and they’d have a look on their face that screamed ‘I’m sorry I asked’.
I’d walk away, hating myself, because deep inside I know I could do it without it.

A few days passed before I ever talked to The Boyfriend about it.  We were standing in a gas station, I had just bought three egg rolls out of the hot box, and we were leaving to come home.  It was early (my late) and I had just gotten off of work – I was hungry, but I didn’t want to go home and cook.  Who wants to do that when you just worked twelve hours and had to get up in six hours to work twelve more?

The cashier had just told us that she and her husband had the surgery.  Together.  I scanned her face, her arms, body and I sighed.  That look flashed through my mind.  She’s older than me, but it briefly frightened me.  Would I look like that?

On the way to the car I told them boyfriend, “I’ve been thinking about the surgery lately.  Maybe it would help.”  He was silent at first, like he usually is when it comes to my weight conversations, but then he spoke.  He sighed, and told me that if I wanted it he wouldn’t stop me, but he doesn’t want me to have it.  He always tells me,  but sometimes after doctor visits and they tell me I’ve gained weight since the last visit, if a doctor tells me I have to have it or death will occur, that he would step aside and let it happen.  But he doesn’t want me to get it – I understand that.

I told him, once we were sitting down in the car, that maybe if I had the surgery, it would give me the weight loss boost I’m needing (or think I’m needing) to get the rest off.  His face fell slightly, and he just stared at me.  I know what he was saying without him saying it.  It’s not hard to figure out his feelings toward something he doesn’t agree with.  I understand – I don’t agree with it, if it’s not the last option.  (I don’t think someone that weighs under 250 pounds should have it.)

It’s been a few days since then and it’s been on my mind.  The thoughts – the shower – his reaction – his look – that conversation.

What I’ve realized since then is a few things.
One.  I know I can pull the weight off by eating better and exercising.  I’ve done it before.  (Some part of my body seems to start hurting after three months, and I stop, put all the weight plus more back on, and then hate myself.)
Two.  I want to be able to tell people that I did it with hard work, determination, and a lot of blood/sweat/tears.  (Surgery will not help me do that.)
Three.  I think I love myself too much to put myself through it.

So what has all of this thinking made me realize?

I still want to work hard, take years and pull the weight off by myself.  Not with help from a surgeon who is out to make a million dollars by fifty.  I know it’s going to be hard, a long battle, and it’s going to take a lot of time.

But I can do this.  I just have to get my butt in gear and stop making up excuses as to why I can’t, or wont do it.

Soulmates.

Soulmate: noun.  A person ideally suited to another as a close friend or romantic partner.

People are given two soulmates in their lifetime.

A lover.
The one person who opens your heart to a whole new world and wonder no one can give you.  A single touch electrifies you.  Intensity.  Love.  Honesty.  Affection.  Spiritually.

A best friend.
Someone to spend life with that doesn’t hate you, scar you, && is always there to help && protect you.  Love.  Honesty.  Spiritually.

You can love many people in a single lifetime.  Some stay, but most leave.  Boyfriends.  Girlfriend.  Friends.  Co-workers.  Life hands you hundred’s of people in your life but the ones who matter never leave.  You may not talk daily, or see each other often – but you know, deep inside, they are there forever.

Growing up I always said, and believed, that a person can only have one soulmate until I realized that’s not exactly true and funnily enough, I realized this while watching One Tree Hill.  I will always believe you can only be “in love” with one person in your lifetime.  I don’t believe you can feel something THAT strong for multiple people.  (You can love as many as you want.  Big difference between loving someone && being in love with someone.)

But sometimes I forget about best friends.  That one person you meet and you simply think to yourself this person, I like this person, they will be mine forever.  &&& it’s true, you may not see them on a daily basis, or even monthly basis.  But you know, &&& they know, &&& everyone knows – they are your person.

Your.  Person.
Your bestfriend.
Your companion.

Everyone needs that person too.  You need the one person in your life who isn’t going to tear you down, or make you feel inferior to everyone else.  Someone who doesn’t crumple your spirit, or squeeze you like an orange if you want to believe in rainbows and unicorns.  Someone who will not get mad when you trip them into the mud, or lock them out of the car on a rainy night.

Reading that you started thinking about your wife or husband.  Boyfriend or girlfriend.  But do you think of your best friend.  The person you met in elementary school or junior high.  Possibly high school or college.  Or if you lacked social skills and didn’t develop much until adulthood, maybe you’re thinking about a person at work.  A girl or a guy that makes your life a little less stressful and enjoyable.  Life is hard enough trying to maneuver your way around it – it’s even harder when you’re alone – that’s why God gave you people.  Two people.  The two people that will get you through life without too much struggle, or too much pain, heartbreak, or sorrow.

Those two people.
Your lover.
Your best friend.
Your soul mates.

 

Am I a Cliché?

I’ve been feeling weird the last few months.  && the one thing that has plagued my mind the most is whether or not I’m just an average cliché or not.  I know it’s silly to think of yourself like but it’s there.  Floating around in my brain.

Since I was about eighteen I have been trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life.  What is it that I WANT to be – to do.  I can always remember being younger and wanting to be in the medical field, help people – but once I lost my mother my mood shifted and I didn’t want to deal with the pain of telling their loved ones that I lost their person.  So I’ve been trying to figure it out ever since.

But now I feel as if I may just be another cliché.

I can always remember having the love for writing – which isn’t a big secret if you know me.  I remember writing my very first poem in school then spending years writing poems (I no longer have any of them, which is probably a good thing) before I slowly moved into writing short stories and then began my first novel.

But why is that making me feel like I do?

I’ve noticed lately that EVERYONE is a writer.  If they don’t have a career path, any idea what they want out of life, or are stay-at-home mom’s – they are automatically a writer.  They keep blogs, posting daily, write stories that they share with people, and self-publish novels that they write in about a week.

If they are not “writers” they are ‘chefs’ or ‘photographers’.  *SIDE NOTE: I’m not bashing writers, chefs or photographers &&& you’ll see why as you read on.*

My second love is cooking and secretly, deep down inside, I would love to open a restaurant.  Third love – photography.  I even bought an EOS Rebel 35 MM camera when I was eighteen thinking that I will become a photographer.  I even looked into photography schools to learn how to be better and develop film myself.

But just like when it comes to ‘writers’, a lot of people say they are photographer or chefs because they don’t know what to do with their lives.  When I was looking into the photography idea I noticed just how many people do that themselves and I thought ‘if everyone is a photographer then what am I doing?  I cannot compete with the whole state of Oklahoma.”  (I’ll always have a soft spot for photography and any chance I get I take pictures for people.)  But unfortunately, most of the people in my life call the other “photographers” around to do their photos.  Or… they use their phone and take their own.  That’s fine, whatever.

But am I just like the rest of people trying to do something with my life that EVERYONE seems to be doing?  I will always have a love for writing, but am I being ridiculous in thinking that I will be published?

I just turned 30.  I am 30 years old.  I feel like I haven’t accomplished anything in my life.  Sitting here thinking about my writing and I realize that I have never finished a full story.  Even Frost, the novel I’ve been working on since November of 2012 – I’m still not finished with it.  I actually decided to “rewrite” it.  Now I’m sitting here with a half finished novel and I honestly think it’s complete crap.  I wonder sometimes if that’s why I haven’t finished it.  I even try to tell myself that Stephen King threw away Carrie – he hated that story.  Threw it in the trash.

When it comes to cooking I’m perfectly find just cooking with the family or for them and friends.  I can live my life doing that.  It’s fine.  One day I might open a restaurant, but I won’t be bummed if I never open one.

Photography is a very slow dying out occupation because of cell phone cameras and small pocket sized digital cameras.  Why pay someone to do something your sister can do?

Writing.  I have had a love for that since I was ten or eleven.  (No, I didn’t start writing when I was four – that’s dumb.)  In 2012 I told myself I’d be finished and published by 30 – but here I am.  With neither crossed off my list.

I guess what I’m trying to figure out is what do I want to be doing for the rest of my life?  I know for a fact that it’s not my job right now.  I do NOT want to make it a career because I barely like it.  (No offense to the job itself.)  Honestly, I know the answer, but does it make me a cliché knowing that I don’t like my job, don’t really have any future plans but I want to be a published author?

Dear Diary – Every Day’s A Struggle,

I feel like I’m going backwards.  The week of pay day is always a little harder than every other day.  Know what I mean?

I get paid Friday (every two weeks) so I can restock my goodies.  But Christmas is coming up and I am going to eventually start feeling bad about buying stuff for myself.  This is my yearly dilemma.  Sometimes I wonder if this is half the reason I cannot keep up with weight loss.  Do it for so long, thinking about no one but myself, and then I realize that I’m thinking about no one but myself.

I start feeling bad.

I have been eating left overs for the last couple of days.  I know it’s silly to really think about it, but I typically leave all of my calories for the evening.  Which is said to not do so, but I do.

Everyone does something they shouldn’t do.  That’s mine.  (Breakfast has never been my friend.  But that’s for another day.)  But I feel as if I have been eating way too many calories.  I still walk, every day, for at least thirty minutes (which is approximately a mile for me, I’m slow), so I’m still doing my thing.  But how well is it if you eat 5,000 calories a day and only burn 200?  (I don’t eat 5,000 calories a day, maybe 2,000 to the most) – but either way it’s still not good.

I’m rambling.

What I’m saying – is that I have had a rough few days.  Maybe it isn’t rough.  Maybe it’s not as many calories as I think.  Maybe – just maybe – I haven’t put back on my 13 pounds.

That would be nice.

 

Pictures.

I find myself digging through pictures a lot.  Never sure of what I’m going to do with them and which ones I am going to put in frames.  My memories, my family, are left with just pictures.  Millions of pictures throughout my house.  Memories that I sometimes forget.  Like the trip to Walt Disney World my family and I took with I was 15.  I haven’t forgotten it.  However, I cannot piece together every single thing we did or seen.  Everything that was said, sometimes is a blur to me.  

Pictures, however, make me remember. I remember the small things.  Like the guy standing in front of me when I was trying to take a picture of a large parade they do every night before Tinker Bell swoops from Cinderella’s castle and flies around in circles before flying back into a window at the top.  Looking at those pictures I realize now that it’s the same guy with his family.  

After the parade, Tinker Bells flight are fireworks.  Fireworks, at which I’ve never seen anything more amazing since.  They lit up the night sky in multiple colors as the crowd around me found love.  Couples holding hands or stealing kisses.  Flashes of colors in everyone’e eyes.  My dad wrapping his arm around my mother as I stare in bewilderment at the sight before me.  

Love.

It’s such a small thing to remember.  The whole trip.  Without pictures, however, I can only remember the not-so-great parts.  The day we were walking and I didn’t realize there was different types of heat.  Florida, a heat all of it’s own, threw me out.  I waved my imaginary white flag above my head as I took a seat on a bench above a large beautiful tree over looking a water ride.  I sat, breathing, in the shade as people whipped past me on a water ride that left the ground and slide far into the sky.  I wanted to ride it.  Every part of my being wanted to stand in line, get into one of the logs, and ride through the water as it splashed the passerby’s that got a little too close.  I didn’t, though.  I was scared.  I was petrified of leaving the ground.  Being too far into the sky.  Instead, I sat on that bench and watched everybody walk around munching on snacks that are way over priced, drinking out of a bottle of water that is nearly fifteen dollars.

My attention was quickly drawn back to reality the moment an older gentleman squirted me with water in my face.  My eyes flashed around until I caught him, staring.  My mom smiled and thanked him, no one else thought to.  He smiled back.  “She looked a little white.  I was worried.  She needs water.”

I couldn’t get over just how generous this man was.  As I continued to sit there, breathing, letting the water run off my face and sizzle on the ground I felt something hit my head.  Not hard.  Just a small thump!  I felt my hair.  Pulling my hand back I realized there were birds in this large tree that I decided to sit under.  Birds don’t quite know how to find a restroom.

My mom laughed for hours.  She is probably still laughing as I write this.

Pictures show a persons life.  It shows what they did, who they were with, including the love and affection one person shares with another.  I remember a time where I took pictures upon pictures.  Snapping pictures so quickly people were hiding my camera.  I loved it.  Still do.  But the urge has faded a little since my brothers wedding.

I had one job that night.  One.  Pictures.  Take nice pictures as they walked down the aisle.  As they said “I do!”  As they finally had their first kiss as man & wife.  I couldn’t even do that.  I couldn’t bring myself to tell my brothers wife’s friends that I needed the lights on.  Because they didn’t.  The camera’s they purchased were better than mine.  Digital.  Compared to my 35 mm, that needed light besides the flash, I let them control them.  I let them decide for me that I didn’t know what I was talking about.  I took the pictures.  I took many pictures.  I didn’t receive one single good pictures.  They were either too dark, or too far away, or someone standing in my way.  

Haven’t taken pictures much since.

Early yesterday morning someone asked me to do their Christmas pictures of their family.  They’d pay me.  How can I turn down an offer like that.  There are only two things in life I’ve ever had a connection with.  One: Writing.  That will always be my baby that nurture.  Will, until the day they put me underground.  Two: Photography.  To show the world how I see things compared to them.  The beauty in things.  I can’t draw it by hand.  I use camera’s.  

I am going to take her pictures of her family.  I’m going to speak up and I will make sure they turn out decent.  I just wish that I would have spoke up at my brothers wedding.  Because then, they’d have pictures that were decent and not complete crap.

Pictures can mean a lot of things for a lot of people.  For me, it’s life.  It’s love.  It’s memories.  It’s family.  It’s everything wrapped up into one single multi colored piece of paper.  Something so small means so much to me.  I have cried over pictures ruining.  Water being sprayed over them, sticking together.  Then, by the time I realize it’s too late.  They are glued together.  As I listen to the pictures peel apart, that wretched sound of paper stripping the life from itself, I cry.  Tears streaking down my face as I grip the pictures tightly in my hands.  It’s a heart breaking moment.  Losing life.  Losing memories.  Losing love.  Losing family.  Especially when you’re family is gone.  

Moments in pictures.  A stolen kiss.  A stolen laugh.  Someone caught off guard as they shove the biggest corn dog in their mouth at a large fair.  Moments, small moments, caught by a single flash behind a camera.  

Take more pictures through your life.  Write on the back of them.  That way when you’re eighty and you open a box from you life.  You can remember exactly what is going on in that part of your world.  Something so small.