This blog is a collection of a young woman's random thoughts, many tangents, and occasional
short stories and novel excerpts. Stay tuned for plenty of bull and brief moments of brilliance.

Friday, April 24, 2015

My "Prom Proposal" Was Different...and Perfect.

I have a little story to share with everyone. As prom season fast approaches, I’m seeing articles on Facebook and Buzzfeed daily about extravagant “prom proposals.” I keep searching my brain and I can’t remember anyone my age getting a prom proposal in high school. That may be because:
·        Our generation skipped that whole thing?
·        I went to an all-girls school so you either went with your boyfriend or a friend from Marquette.
·        I was entirely oblivious to the entire prom process.

To say I was an awkward child always has been an understatement. No men paid me much attention until I got into college and even then my short boy cut wasn't doing me any favors. I had my go-to date though for dances: Justin Hartman.



Justin was one of the few people I stayed in contact with from middle school. He was always nice, a bit eccentric, and was one of my first crushes (this was before my Gaydar was effective in any way…). Justin was the perfect dance date because he was a great dancer, a fun time, and he actually cared about color coordinating. He attended many a dance with me and I always loved when he came along to DSHA functions. I’ll never forget his go-to skinny black tie.

Prom time was a strange time for me for multiple reasons. On April 10th of that year, I got an email saying I had been nominated for prom queen. Look at pictures of me from that time and tell me that wasn't shocking news. It was a great pick-me-up since I had just failed my first road test. I remember my mom was thrilled at the prospect her daughter could be a prom queen.

The next morning my mom died suddenly.

Prom was about two weeks after my mom passed and having fun was the last thing on my mind. When you experience a great tragedy, even if you’re trying hard to ignore the entire event, you walk through life with a fog around you. I already had my dress before my mom died but the idea of planning for prom was no longer something I thought about. There were no discussion of a limo, no giant after-parties I thought I would attend, and very flimsy prom group plans among my friends.

The week after my mom’s funeral, I got a text from Justin that he wanted to meet up for ice cream. This wasn't that unusual; I had been getting these messages from people frequently checking in on me. I was strangely quiet as we sat. I remember I didn't want to talk to him but it was nice to be sitting in silence with a friend.

By that point, I was sick of talking about my mom. Grieving is hard enough without hundreds of sets of eyes on you constantly. She was a staple in the community and I felt like people kept projecting their own feelings of loss over my mom onto me. Her funeral mainly consisted of me hugging and consoling people rather than the other way around. I was exhausted. I felt like people were pitying me and staring at me at school and all I wanted to do was hide. For once, I didn't like being the center of attention.

Justin smiled, “So, Prom. What are we doing?”
“What?”
“Well, I know you've been busy for obvious reasons, but we haven’t even talked about prom yet. Isn’t it coming up in a couple weeks?”
“Well yeah, but…”
“It’s, okay, I've been thinking about it. I’m going to see if I can get us a cool car to drive there in…”
“Wait, what makes you think I’m automatically going to invite you?” I teased.
He smirked, “Honey please, who else were you going to take? Obviously we’re going together.”
(He pulled a giant Men’s Warehouse catalog from his lap and dropped it on the table.)
“Now, let’s talk colors. You told me you have a dark blue dress, so I’m thinking of going with yellow, like this color here…”

At this point in my life, everything felt like it was crumbling around me. I felt like I was walking through the rubble and trying not to fall and break my ankle. Home was depressing and everyone around we was walking on egg shells worried they were going to turn me into a blubbering mess. Justin gave me something great in that moment. His bluntness over prom and the refocusing of my attention was exactly what I needed.

A couple days later, a loose lipped family member let slip I had been chosen as prom queen (you’re obviously not supposed to know about that beforehand). I remember I was so foggy in that time I forgot to get him a boutonniere until the day of (now that I think about it, he may have ended up having to buy his own). Justin, on the other hand, handed me on prom day the most flamboyant, loud, entirely fabulous wrist corsage I’d ever seen. There were yellow roses, blue feathers, and a blue sequined wristband.

That night was amazing from start to finish. I had a great supportive group of friends as my “prom family” and Justin was the perfect date. Few moments were more exciting than walking down the steps at the Tripoli Shrine Center in Milwaukee with Justin on my arm, pretending that I didn't know what was going on. We danced the night away; I distinctly remember Justin getting frustrated at my total lack of swing-dance-abilities.
My favorite prom memory still is Justin stealing my prom queen crown and prancing through the event to the confusion of many women around me.



That prom corsage stayed attached to my bedpost for the next two years. I still have the crown on our dresser at home and may or may not wear it around the house when I’m feeling down. Was I made prom queen because I was the girl whose mom just died? Maybe, but I had a remarkable night regardless. I do still love people’s reactions when I tell them I was a prom queen. I’m frequently told I’m “not the type.”

So maybe I didn't get a big fancy prom proposal. Maybe my dress did cost $30 off a sales rack from the year before and had little snowflakes on it even though prom was in April. Maybe my dad did drive us both after Justin’s car plans fell through. And maybe I did get through prom without being about to find a single drop of alcohol. The prom I ended up having though was ten times better, and 90% of that was thanks to Justin.



Wednesday, April 15, 2015

A Reflection on the Last Thirteen Years

How long has it been since I've blogged? Holy crap. I realize, as many times as I've alluded to or described it briefly in the past, I've never written in depth about my own mental health issues. I've always had a bit of an issue with being open in this area in my life for a multitude of reasons. But I feel like it's time I gave it a shot, not for anyone in particular, but for me. As most things with this blog, I write it for me and hope the occasional person will read it...as mildly narcissistic as that may be. Isn't blogging just that to a certain extent? Anyways...

After I graduated college, I didn't expect the numbness toward being creative that I found. Creative writing for the heck of it felt impossible and my work life didn't do much to help. I was a waitress, working odd hours and sleeping when most were awake. When I did have a spare second, I used to it to try to figure out how to get a better job and finance a move to Illinois.

The summer after graduating, I took myself off the medication I had been on since I was around eleven. Mandatory warning: I do not suggest anyone do this on his or her own. It's dangerous and should only be done with doctor supervision or with a doctor's suggestion. Toward the end of my senior year, my doctor at the time pointed out most of my mental health symptoms had subsided or were well regulated, so I should consider weaning myself off the drugs.

The very thought was terrifying to me; they were my security blanket and I didn't want to let them go. I had heard horror story on horror story of people deciding they were fine and going on benders that ruined their lives. Now, for a bit of background.

I was diagnosed with anxiety and depression at a young age, both by circumstance and a genetic predisposition. At sixteen I was diagnosed with PTSD from events in my childhood, though I only got counseling for it specifically when I got to college my freshman year. All the while, from ages 15-22, I was also self-harming. Even as my other mental health issues were under control, the self-harm addition persisted though the end of college.

I've been described by a lot of people as an open person, though the truth is my openness is more of a shield than anything. If you share far too much information about yourself, people won't ask you questions about the things you want to avoid. My subjects of choice? My struggles with mental health and specifically suicide and self-harm.

I don't have a problem talking about depression and anxiety. The average person knows at least a bit about both and though there are definite stigmas wrapped around both, society has come a long way. I promised myself at the age of thirteen never to discuss suicidal thoughts and eventually learned not to talk about cutting either.

I watched one too many movies where characters end up in a psychiatric ward from which they never escape. I already felt a lot of guilt surrounding my depression/anxiety, feeling like I was a burden to people, and thus never discussed my encounters with suicide with my parents. My mom was pretty perceptive and I think she guessed some things, but never confronted me directly about it.

My first suicidal "moment" happened when I was thirteen. What brought it about is not important; what is important was how close I came. My letter was written, erased, and rewritten. I had about half of my funeral  planned in detail (even in my darkest times, I was still irrationally organized). I had two or three concrete plans and what they were aren't important either.

There's a lot of shame in suicide but also a lot of fear. The fear is of being found out, not of death. If someone finds out you're at that edge, they'll try to help and then you won't get to end everything. You feel hyper-rational when you're suicidal and if you focus on it enough it's actually a rather terrifying feeling. It's something I have found difficult to snap out of but I know how it feels when it's coming on.

I'm not entirely sure what pulled me out of that dark place at that age, but I have a rough idea. I started setting small goals for myself or things to look forward to. "Oh, you can't kill yourself, you're going on that field trip next week!" "Wait, not yet, the dance next week will be fun!" I never believed in much of an afterlife so the idea I was going to miss out on impending events was enough to take my life day by day until the clouds slowly dissipated. Does that sound dark and messed up? Because it is.

From there I was fine until this past year. I had defeated the suicide monster for ten years before she reeled her ugly head again. I was a little over a year out of college and my life felt stuck. I was struggling as a waitress and bank teller, working long days and my free time was solo and lonely. Wandering a mall at 11am on a Wednesday is rather depressing. I had an amazing boyfriend who was supportive and loving, but I felt like I was touching my life with thick gloves. I couldn't connect.

I'm a great liar; it's something you learn to perfect when you cut, when you're depressed, when you're feeling like you're losing control. I smile a lot, almost too much to be fair, so even the man I was closest to couldn't see it. I came close, closer than I thought I would after teetering on that cliff so long ago. What pulled me back? Similar to last time with small goals, but as silly as it sounds, Luke helped me immensely. His constant love and support, never judgement, has made all the difference.

Cutting was the same thing. I started when I was fifteen, a result of not yet diagnosed PTSD and a lack of knowledge of how to handle flashbacks. I remember telling my mom when I was sixteen about it and she didn't react in the best way. She cried a lot but she blamed me to an extent, saying something along the lines of, "Why do you keep causing more problems?" I know she didn't mean it, that it was said out of frustration, but it hurt. I stopped and kept clean for almost two years, but that's when the addiction took hold. I did it once because I was stressed out and about something silly and college-y that wasn't a big deal and it felt good. It felt really good. Down the rabbit hole I went.

I told few people about my cutting over the following years, close friends and more random acquaintances. I never gave much detail and I'm not sure if I knew what I wanted to happen as a result. Sometimes, when you have a secret, it blurts itself out in very obtuse ways. Most everyone's reaction was the obvious one: take sharp things away from me and suggest I seek help. After seeing numerous psychiatrists over the years, I was done with the therapy thing; I lied too much to do it honestly. I hated that "admitting" moment with people; it's scary. To me it felt like I was admitting defeat, that I wasn't smart enough to keep my mouth shut, and that I was looking for attention. That last one stings the most.

I despise sympathy to an almost unhealthy level. I hate asking or getting help from people for personal issues and would rather go it alone 99% of the time (I'm trying to get better at this). Relationships came and went, almost all of them experiencing the cutting with me and one point or another and they all tried to help...which makes sense. For some reason though, once people try to help, it only makes me try to push them away or hide it better. Didn't say it made much sense, did I?

Luke was partially the reason I stopped cutting. I've had a few slip ups over the last two years, but I still consider myself two years clean. I remember the first time I cut in our relationship and I texted him; I don't know why. I wasn't looking for sympathy but it had been a long time since I'd picked up a knife and I was scared. For the first time, my addiction was actively scaring me and I couldn't "control" it. A couple hours later I opened the front door and he was standing there with a bouquet of flowers.The tag said, "Happiness Bouquet."

Inquisitively, I looked at him and he said, "Because you deserve to be happy." No rifling though my things to take so much as tweezers from me, no lecture, just love. This isn't to say everyone else's attempts before him were bad; this is just the one that stuck. Between that and my recent suicidal episode, the look on his face when he learns how badly I'm hurting is the most devastating thing I've ever seen.

With all of this background knowledge now, you can see why I was scared to pull the plug, so to speak, on my medication. With a few exceptions, life without medication feels...different. Most of my adolescence was spent medicated, and it's not something I blame my parents for at all. There were times in my life that if I had been without it, I probably would have died. They did what was best for me at the time.

After two years, I feel like most of the drugs are out of my system. The first few months I didn't notice much because that stuff can linger for quite a while, especially after over a decade of use. Eventually though I noticed a few negative things:

  • I freak out more easily than I did before.
  • Smaller things stress me out quickly.
  • Random things can get be down for a day or two for no real reason.
  • My brain feels more frantic if too much is going on.
The most recent suicidal episode was the first time I tried to face that demon head on with no help. And I made it out okay. It was the most blatant answer for me that I was doing the right thing. Though there are some negatives, the good greatly outweigh the bad:
  • My brain feels "clearer."
  • I don't have to worry about forgetting my medication.
  • No more concerns about medications interacting with another.
  • I feel creative again.
That last one has been the most important thing for me. I was creative throughout all of my schooling, yes, but that was partly fueled by the academic atmosphere I was in. Being in high school and especially college, being surrounded by a bunch of talented people makes you want to better yourself. That's one of the biggest slaps in the face when you graduate: no one is there anymore to see if you are trying.

For the first time since I've graduated I'm feeling creative again. I started early this year with cross-stitching. Then, I started baking cookies. Now I'm reading again. All of this is slowly inching me closer to the pen and paper (or Word document more realistically). Is it because of the medication? Because I've finally gotten over the post-college blues? Because I have a job I'm comfortable in and makes me feel fulfilled? Because I live in a great house with a supportive partner and feel happy in general?

Maybe. Most likely, it's a combination of all of the above. I've spent the better part of my life facing demons and monsters around every corner. I'm not sure what to do sometimes without the constant struggle. When life feels settled, something always ends up happening and WOOSH! I'm headed for a tail-spin. But most of all, I've spent most of my time in this life denying my issues to the world.

I hate talking about problems, REAL problems. It makes me feel whiny, weak, and generally like a worthless person. I have this intense fear of being a burden to anyone ever. I'm not going to start spewing my level of happiness for everyone and it will still take me a while before I can freely express my lows. With this new-found stability though, it seems as good as any a time to start. I can't keep denying my struggles to others or to myself or I'll end up in those dark places again. And next time, I might not get out.

My name is Molly. I'm a 24 year old woman who is a dreadful combination of self-esteem issues and overconfidence. I love my dog, my boyfriend, and my job. I struggle with depression and anxiety. I've overcome PTSD and a seven year self-harm addiction. I've come back from two suicidal episodes with a new appreciation on life.

I am a survivor.

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Even If You Don't Feel Like You Need To, You Want To

Sometimes things happen in your life and you don't feel like you should have to tell anyone about them. It's your own personal life, your choices, your thoughts, who else should be privy to those? You realize things about yourself and you like the idea of keeping it to yourself.

But then you remember you like to write. That strange emotions and feelings make more sense when you write them down and share them with others. It's not for the attention or for any sort of admiration, but there is a catharsis in telling people something about yourself you're only just starting to understand.

It's something I've wrestled with the past couple years, only really became obvious to me this past year, and something I've accepted in the past couple months. There were things I needed to sort out in my own life before I could figure any of this shit out.

I'm bisexual.

I don't know why that looks so weird and feels so weird to write out. When I think about it, it makes complete sense, but seeing it on paper makes me feel strange. I'm guessing that's because I've always thought of myself as an obnoxiously straight girl, an ally yes, but straight. I've always liked guys, perhaps was a bit too obsessed at times with them in middle/high school, and always dated guys.

On the other hand, I've always thought girls were pretty. Girls have a very touchy-feely attitude about them so I thought all girls thought like this. It's normal to look at a girl and think about her, think she's pretty, etc. It's even a bit normal to have crushes on girls, right? Innocent, school-girl crushes.

But then in the past few years it's been more than a few crushes. Always random, out of the blue, but there have been girls in my life who have given me butterflies in the most confusing ways. Thoughts lingered perhaps a bit too long and their smiles would get to me.

Being in a relationship for almost a year and a half now, I'd consider myself a very devout girlfriend. Cheating is the ultimate rule-breaker for me and I've never really been able to have legitimate feelings for someone else while in a relationship. I could appreciate someone is attractive, even have a bit of a crush, but it stops there.

You can see now why it was hard to identify if this was anything more than appreciating cute ladies around me. When I'm in love, I find it impossible to feel anything more than admiration toward other people. I'm stuck on one guy in particular and I don't see falling out of love with him any time soon. He completes me in every way possible and is honestly my best friend. He still makes me blush even after all this time.

So...what's the point of all of this? Why even think all of this through or worry about this at all? For me, for myself, and entirely for my own sense of calm. As a constant over-thinker, it helps to understand my thoughts and feelings even if I'm not going to act on them. It explains lots of things over the years and why I was always so interested in the concept of bisexuality.

Perhaps, most importantly, bisexuality isn't how I would describe it. I hate labels (oh, how "millennial" of me) and like to think of it more of a fluid sexuality. People are awesome. People are cute. I think cute people are awesome, regardless of genitalia. No, I'm not running away from the awesomeness in my life that I honestly think comes around once in a lifetime, but it helps me get me.

This declaration, if you will, is not to lay out or explain away past or future actions. It's to make sense of the insanity inside my head, make sense of what I see and feel, and come to a better understanding of what makes Molly Jane so Molly Jane. I am me, odd bits and all, happily in love but someone who also appreciates a wide spectrum of people.

Beauty is beauty to me. Not having to put a marker or an explanation on what kind of beauty I see in the world is strangely freeing in a rather confusing way.

Did this post make sense? No, not really. Do I think it was necessary and will I probably regret posting it afterwards? Meh, I rarely regret posting things about myself (again, how "millennial" of me). Does this change much if anything about me? Nope, just that I can admire a nice pair of boobies and adorable man butt. And isn't that the point of life? Boobies and man butt? Indeed it is.

New life slogan coined.

Tuesday, June 17, 2014

Why the Idea of "The One" is Wrong

I have always had an issue with this quintessential, all-encompassing idea of "The One," the one man you'll meet who was meant for you and only for you and will be your own true love and perfect soul mate. This is the person God meant to be your partner in life and when you find them, you'll know instantly, the connection will be real, and it'll be intense and all-consuming.

Does this strike anyone else as utter horseshit?

Something about the idea of "The One" seems horribly unromantic. It takes away the beauty and chaos that is trekking through the jungle of a relationship. If you are meant for one person, you're taking a rather passive and backseat approach to your love live; you have no control over it and therefore no responsibility. It's a cold, calculated algorithm that determines your destiny. You have no power over who is chosen for you and it just happens. If love is not something you have to struggle with and rather happens because it's supposed to, it takes the work out of it. Don't let anyone fool you; love is hard work. It should be. It shouldn't be a horrible, painstaking bloodbath but there should be trials and tribulations.

Another thing is the religious aspect which I've heard connected to the idea of "The One" and some sort of romantic journey we're all apparently on. I consider myself a Christian and am well read and learned in many Judeo-Christian works. Why in the hell would God pick one person for you that is going to be your everything? This assumes that anyone who ends up alone in adulthood is either: a) unloved by God, b) missed their opportunity by some random situation, or c) their "One" died in a horrible bus crash years ago. If you get divorced, did you ruin someone else's chance of finding their "One" if they become jaded by the idea of a committed relationship? If you find that you actually prefer being by yourself are you destroying the forces of the universe?

Personally, I prefer the idea that love is chance, a crazy, insane, beautiful mess of a chance. It's like those little white puffs that fly off of trees that you used to try to catch when you were a kid. If you caught one, you got to make a wish and it would come true. If you stand in one place forever, you may never get a little white puff fall perfectly into your hand. You have to run around, live your life, try out different puffs if you have to to discover what you want and need out of life.

My point is this: don't discount the idea of being with many people in your life, and I don't just mean sexually (but if you want to, by all means, go enjoy yourself, you delightful little lady!). You learn so much more about yourself by falling in love more than once. Fall in love as often and as differently as you can. I have a best friend who got it right on the first try, and I do mean she hit the jackpot. She found the love of her life on the first time around the track but most of us aren't so lucky. Don't sit idly by and say you're just waiting for "The One." Don't date a bunch of dipshits either, but take a chance once in a while.

You don't have a "One," sorry. No Prince Charming is going to come break down your door as you sit wantonly by your window waiting patiently. On the flip side you don't need to be running around tits first into everyone you can find on the street in a desperate attempt to find someone who will hang out with you. If you live your life beautifully, and I mean truly passionately with a fire unlike anything else, people will naturally be drawn to you.

So stop worrying that you haven't found "The One." You will find someone to marry someday, or you won't. Either way you'll still be a fantastic and flawless bitch. We're all guilty of over thinking love and thinking that we'll never find it in our lives. Worrying endlessly about what eternal love life may materialize based on some archaic and slightly religiously rooted idea that there is one person assigned to your vagina is stupid. You are your own woman and ladies, it's time to start acting like it.

If you are lucky enough to find love, and I mean a love that feels so real and wonderful it hurts you smile so often, do not let it go. But if you find yourself alone don't assume you will be forever and at the same time, don't assume being alone means you are going to have any less of a happy life. You make your own destiny, as corny as it sounds, and love is a fickle and difficult beast to find. If it was easy, it would take away all the fun. Be you, don't be the person you need your future husband to find. Don't worry about your future husband or even the possibility of one. Love will find you, even if not through romantic ventures, in one way or another.

But most importantly, love yourself, because out of all the uncertainty that is our human existence, you are the one person you can count on. Love yourself in all parts of life; love every last damn piece of you. You are not the sum of parts predetermined for you by someone else. You are who you let yourself be. And that person is pretty fucking special.

Monday, March 3, 2014

Holy Three (Almost Four) Months, Batman!

Have I mentioned lately that I suck? Because I do. I cannot believe it's been four months since I've posted anything on this blog. The worst thing is that I link to it in my current staff bio (more on that later) and there was nothing new even to reference. I feel horrible.

To be fair, I have been terribly busy. The move went off without any major bumps in the road and after last week from a trip back up to Milwaukee, I finally have some substantial furniture. Within a couple weeks here in Carol Stream (the Chicago suburb I'm currently living in, hopefully I can move closer to downtown sometime in the next year or two), I had two new jobs! I'm still working at Longhorn in Schaumburg and am meshing in nicely with the awesome people who work there.

Some pictures of the new apartment:
Bedroom, new desk, and my pup.

Kitchen and not yet assembled kitchen table.
Living room and my little shrine to traveling.
My little reading corner.

The first of the two new jobs is as a bank teller in Glen Ellyn. It took two long months of training before I started, but this past week, I finally started on my own drawer and I'm really enjoying it. The second new job is a lot more exciting to me on an overall "goal" level: staff writer for FemaleIntel.com. Shortly after I moved an old family friend and former neighbor messaged me asking if I'd be interested in working for a site he was developing and obviously my answer was yes! I started on as a contributing writer and became a staff writer in mid-January.

Writing articles for Female Intel has been a necessary and cathartic outlet for me. The first two months here were stressful, beyond stressful, especially with my new tighter budget and a few unforeseen expenses (more gas money needed, stuff for Lucy when she moved in with me, new plates and licence, etc.). Life was difficult at the restaurant with the craziest fucking winter I can remember. I made due but it wasn't nearly as much as it would have been if there weren't six inches of snow every week or -40 degree windchill.
Check out my articles here: http://femaleintel.com/author/mollys/


Writing again felt good, and it still does. Fiction wise I've had a terrible writer's block for almost a year now, since last April or so. I don't know exactly what happened to cause it but I can't seem to shake it. I started feeling down on myself, like I was stuck in this rut and had had the key to my own creativity stolen from me. Female Intel gave me a couple bobby pins to break my way back into that creative sphere.

Overall though I'm happy with the move. It took a couple weeks but by January, even though Luke and I both agree that by all accounts it was a miserable month, I realized I had made the right choice. Being closer to him meant so much more to be than I ever thought possible. I felt like I had an arm missing. I figured out how to function with only one arm since I'm a strong and confident woman (thank you, DSHA) and most days could forget I was missing it all together. But that doesn't mean though that I forgot what it was like to have two arms.

The first night I got in, I had no bed yet (still back in Iowa City), and no furniture to speak of; I only had a couple boxes and suitcases to my name. When Luke got to my new apartment to come pick me up to stay at his place until my bed came in the next week, my heart actually stopped for a second. It felt surreal, like there was no way on earth that the long wait was finally over. We got into my place and that first hug, that first kiss, there were so many strong emotions wrapped up into them. I actually started to tear up a bit. He just stood there and hugged me and wouldn't let go.
Luke and I the day after I moved to IL.


Since then the high intensity of emotions has waned obviously and things feel back to "normal," but better even. Long distance did bring us closer together somehow. We just celebrated out one year anniversary in early February and our second Valentine's Day together and couldn't be happier. He's my right hand man, one of my best friends, and one of the only people I know who puts up with everything I do. When I burp at him he responds, "Bless you." You can't beat that.

Lucy loves it here even though it took her a good three weeks to get used to being home alone for eight or so hours a day. I will admit though that Lucy loves Luke so much more than me. If it's a choice between the two of us, it's him 90% of the time. When we go stay over at his place, she runs right up to his door and jumps up and down waiting for me to open it so she can kiss him. We're a great happy little family right now.
My little princess, Lucy. She knows she's cute.

Though my Fridays and Saturdays, when I work both jobs, can get me down and leave me feeling fully drained, I wouldn't give any of this up. I feel challenged on a daily basis and insanely lucky for everything that has happened to me. My bestest friend in the world, Michelle, got engaged recently and has asked me to be her Maid of Honor. I can't wait to start doing some legit planning on some raunchy parties for her. Last month I turned 23, my lucky number, so that means this year has to keep going well, right? By the power of the lucky number, I say it must.
23rd birthday, bitch!



Wednesday, December 11, 2013

Finally Moving

It's been a long five months since Luke moved away. Some days if feels like he just left and others the weight of the months can be felt in full force. I am almost having a hard time remembering that this weekend when I see him I won't have to say goodbye Sunday night. No more goodbyes, only see you later.

The car is mostly packed up; the only things that are missing are necessities like shampoo, makeup, and a couple outfits for my last days. I work a double tomorrow and then will drive up to Carol Stream on Friday morning. It's slightly telling that my entire life, sans my bed and a small dresser, can fit in my tiny ass pink car.

I've been getting nostalgic the past couple days but not nearly as bad as I thought it would be. I think that's because I already said goodbye to Iowa City six months ago when I graduated. It's as though I've been living here on borrowed time. I feel like a dinner guest that has overstayed her welcome; it's time for me to go.

The actual move date snuck up on me faster than I thought it would. Everything is set except for finding someone to take my current apartment. I can financially take care of it through January but after that things will get interesting, and not in a good way. I hope people who are moving to the area for second semester will start looking for their apartments soon.

I have a couple interviews when I get to town and the part-time gig at the steakhouse up in Schaumburg. My apartment is great and I cannot wait to get settled in even though I have no furniture to my name so the amenities will be severely limited.

Since I've graduated, I've had the worst writer's block I've had since freshman year of college. It's gotten worse since I started worrying about the move. Maybe changing my scenery will help get me back on track, or at the very least, itching to produce something.

Luke mentioned to me tonight that I haven't written in a while. It bothers me how defensive I get when he mentions that but it's good that he does; no one else would dare call me out on something like that. For the first time in a while I've been trying to write again the past week with little success. But I'll keep trying harder especially in the winter months when there is little else to do.

Besides Luke I don't know anyone else in the Northwest suburbs. Hopefully that'll be to my benefit to make some creative solitude. I'm both excited and terrified for this move for this reason: I don't know anyone. I'm fairly good at making new friends but to be perfectly honest I don't really feel like putting forth the effort. I've been exhausted in every aspect of my life the past few months that any effort that isn't toward making money doesn't seem worth it. I need to get out of this mind-frame.

Anyways, enough babbling about nothing. I have one more relaxing evening here in Iowa City before I schlep myself across the state and over to Illinois. I will miss this town greatly; it has been my home for five years. I have made so many friends and had some of my more important life-changing experiences in this fantastic city.

So thank you, Iowa City, for housing me and helping me grow up. And thank you to the entire state of Iowa for being so welcoming and loving these past five years. I fell in love with this little Midwestern pocket. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Tuesday, November 12, 2013

Some Days are Just Like This

Today has been a particularly shitty day.

When I woke up I thought I'd go get coffee with my best friend who just got engaged the other day. Upon getting in my car, I noticed the tire pressure light was on. That's fine, I thought, it's cold out and that's probably the problem so I'll just go to Kum & Go to fill them up a bit.

After finishing filling the tires, I was upset to see my light wouldn't go off still. Fine, I thought, you can just go to the dealership in Coralville and see what's up. I turned to get back in my car and realized I had locked my keys in the car. At this point I was thoroughly pissed and started hitting my car.

I waited inside for the road side assistance to get there (which thankfully my insurance covered) and paced the entirety of Kum & Go for a half hour. My coffee date was now ruined. The shining star in this whole fiasco was the wonderful people at Kum & Go who I've known for five years now making me laugh and giving me free coffee.

After the road side assistance people left I noticed someone had keyed my car...my entire car. Fine, I thought, when you're at the dealership ask them about it. The dealership fixed my tire pressure light and sent me next door about the keying. The guy was friendly and helpful but let me know, before insurance, it would cost about $2,400 to repair. He said insurance would cover a majority most likely though.

I finally get home and am exhausted. I try to log in on the insurance website to find out what I can do and realize my password is wrong which locks me out of the system. I call them and after another half hour, they fix it. After all that, my last thought was spending an hour on the phone with the insurance company. That's a call for another day.

I realize I haven't heard from the apartment company I'm looking at in Chicago for a couple days so I give them a call. They let me know that I've been approved for the place except for verification from the apartment company here where I live. I laughed a bit on the phone when they said they called and left a message. I said, "Yeah, it might take a couple days."

From a horrible beginning to a surprisingly positive end, it's been an odd fucking day...and I haven't even started my shift at work yet. I'm already tired.

I've been accepted over at the LongHorn in Schaumburg so that's a plus. I'm closer to finding a person to take my apartment here. All I need to do is find a second job now and my plans will be perfect.

These last couple weeks finalizing everything have been horribly stressful and the person taking the brunt of my stress is my loving boyfriend, Luke. I'll need to find some way to make it up to him for all of his patience. Hopefully his epic Christmas present will do some good. If I didn't have someone like him by my side helping me through this, I would be a mess right now. And as it stands, thinks are sort of going well.

"Sort of" is okay for me at the moment; "perfect" would be scary because I would be worrying that something would fall through and go wrong. I'll gladly ride the "sort of" train straight into Chicagoland.