It is a very depleting sense of self when that which you were once passionate, no longer feeds the fire within your core.

Damn, that sounded a bit more profound that I had anticipated.

For years I didn’t want to EVER go to college. There was just no need for me, no passion or desire. It wasn’t until I had reached a place in my life where I needed a life-changing alteration to my path that the word “school” even received a nod let alone a spotlight. I had been married and divorced, I rushed into a new relationship and then couldn’t get out of it without the help of involving police. I was finally working at job that I truly enjoyed, only to leave it all behind by mailing 20 small to medium sized boxes of my life to friends in NY then hopping on a plane ride one way with a suitcase at my side.

I had been to NY twice before in my life. Once during the winter, once during the summer. Neither of which were treacherous or crazy in weather-form. After a few friends had had their NY experience I was due for mine, and mine involved returning to school with a passion and drive to achieve a degree in theatre. (currently) Still does.

I have yet to experience much that this city, or island or historical place has to offer. My life has been a series of classes, homework and shifts at work. I’m unable to make time for much else. But when I do, I convince myself I’ve earned it–only to wake up the next day and feel that I wasn’t nearly productive enough the day prior.

Letting myself down isn’t something I like to do. Letting others down is just as bad, but there is something about letting myself down that is worse. Others may forgive me, I never forgive myself. I am very hard on myself. I set expectation bars high and when I don’t even seem to come close, I give myself no credit for even trying day in and day out. It is a sport I’ve never truly learned how to play, the rules are confusing.

I need a life teacher/life coach. I look around my room while sitting on my uncomfortable bed and see the closet doors ajar, the cabinet that won’t close because the boxes in it are too big, the overly-saturated-with-crap desk in the corner housing everything from notebooks to a bottle of wine and the wax-warmer, with my window a/c unit beneath it. I have no chair for that desk, I don’t know if i’d ever sit at it if I did, it’s too cluttered–I wish I had shelves. There is a well-used cork board above the messy desk with projects and lists attached next to stamps and a small maze someone made for me once to explain two different scenarios. The clutter wall, that’s what I like to call it, is beautiful. It houses one picture of my siblings and I on a red couch in our standard “order” and it is surrounded by postcards, cards and love notes from people that send me them. They have advice on them, nonsense, perfect sense and common sense things. There are pictures and clever sayings, special quotes and warm wishes. Beneath the clutter walls are 2 roll-a-bouts full of T-shirts and sports bras and bandanas, I wish I had a dresser. Above the roll-a-bouts are boxes of craft projects, scarves and beanies–which I recently was told are called “hats” or “skullies,” either way, a box of them sits there with no real place to call home. On the floor there is a box of dance shoes and leg warmers. The silver pole and box put out the heat to the room, I’m thankful that they work so well. The shelf next to that holds all m DVD’s and some books on it, along with some jewelry, candles and another picture on a red couch with family members. The white roll-a-bout circulates the ‘middle’ of the floor with no home base. It serves as a place for business things, school information and underwear. There are hallmark cards that can’t wait to be written in and sent out with those stamps over on the cork board, and my CA esthetician license. My bed, here, serves as a place to sleep but also store clothes and an alarm clock and whatever school work I’m in the middle of at any given time. My robes (3 of them) are hung behind the door and the red towel gets rotated with the other red towel whenever laundry happens, which is about once a week.

This little life I live in this all too messy place seems to define me more lately than any “real” work, or “real” art, and it’s a shame. I used to be a very well-organized person. Now I tend to feel lucky if I pack my bags, note the plural, correctly the night before.

I sit up against this wall on my bed and take in the mess and clutter that is my room. The parts that are on purpose, the parts that are because things have no other place to call home, and I think to myself “I just want to curl up in this corner and fall asleep.” I have no want or drive to do anything. Not homework, not job search, not clean my own room.

I’m not this person.
Who have I become?

It’s just…a little disconcerting to realize where I am in my life and what happened to get me here. My friend asked me how I became a “CA transplant,” which is quite possibly the most clever way I’ve ever heard my life put and it took me a while to answer, and I’m not even sure I like the answer. But, here I am. Attempting to take things “one thing at a time” or “one day at a time” and not let my mind become as over-whelmingly mess and clutter as that which is collected around me. Attempt is the correct word.

I guess the next question could be “what would my perfect world look like?” that way maybe I could look past the practicalities of my current life-style or rather life-situation and maybe remind myself of all those really important questions…