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.

Sunday, August 26, 2012

One Hundred and One

Well holy crap I didn't realize my last post was my 100th entry in this blog. That seems a bit unreal to me, to be honest.

I started this blog awhile ago to, I'm being serious here, be famous. Well that was stupid because about four years later, I'm not. I'm not quite sure how I thought that was going to be possible and I gave up on that dream pretty quickly. Since then though it's been an outlet for random ramblings and writings samples I felt like sharing.

I've taken quite a few writing courses here at University of Iowa: Fiction Writing (twice), Creative Writing, Performing Autobiography, and now Play-writing I. All have given me a wider skill set than I expected and the class that hands-down changed my life was Performing Autobiography. Never before has a professor pushed and inspired me so much and a class support me through every difficult endeavor.

It wasn't that challenging in that it was difficult to get a good grade, but the emotional toll was insane. Every theater student at the university that I have talked to since last semester though I have made sure to mention that class. It's a must take.

This got me thinking of other amazing courses I've taken here, especially considering I only have five more classes to take after this semester in my educational career. Here they are, the classes (at Iowa and in Ireland) I've loved the most, in no particular order:

*Performing Autobiography
*Shakespeare
*Bible and the Holocaust
*Fiction Writing (both times)
*Age of Dinosaurs
And in Ireland:
*Roman Imperial History

The most important things I've learned about myself in college have been outside of the classroom, yes, but in these courses too. Most of them were more because of the professor than subject material alone (except that Roman history course...that professor was boring as fuck...), inspiring me day after day with their sheer enthusiasm and vast knowledge.

Some simply believed in me, like my writing instructors and my PA professor. Others though were widely known on campus as being tough, intimidating, and brilliant, like Professor Gilbert and Professor Holstein. Luckily for me, I was greatly invested in their courses and they loved me for it; be interested in the class and your professor will love you, pretty straight forward.

I still cannot get over the fact this is my last year and that I just finished my last "syllabus week" and my last first day of school last Monday. Alex and I and all our friends are graduating in May...and starting in the real world? Theoretically? The question of what my career will be is becoming more frequent with each passing month.

Am I scared? Holy fuck am I terrified.

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Inner Demons Worn on the Outside

Almost a month between posts, and in the summer no less? Disappointing. A couple months ago I never would have guessed that this summer would be so stressful and trying, but it has been. Between friends, trying to get back in shape, leaving my sorority, working more and more as the summer has gone on, and worrying about my future, little time has been left for writing. I've lost a spark I've been working hard for a while to reignite with futile results.

I have an addiction, one I've been fighting for five years now off and on. My scars tell my story, though I hide them mostly. It's something I will almost always refuse to talk about if approached and if others talk about it, I stay silent. I'm a rather open person, I've been told, about my issues and past for the most part. Keeping things to myself has never been a strong point of mine. This though is something else all together, something I hate to admit.

Do I need to say it? No, probably not. It's probably pretty obvious what I'm talking about so that gets that out of the way. The point is I never received therapy specifically for this and I've avoided trying to get it for quite some time. Any other kind of therapy though I have had...but delving into this coping device for flashbacks that became a crutch for any type of stress?

Never. Nope. Don't wanna. I'm fine. Leave me alone. You can't make me.

Sounds like a child, right? Talking with Alex last night, I realized I was headed down and I don't like down. I've hit rock bottom before but not for years. And now, with how far I've come and how much I've accomplished despite a shit hand I've been dealt at times, this?

Never. Nope. Don't wanna. I'm not fine. But I can be again. Thank you for making me.

I don't know unfortunately if I would have realized this without Alex though and this summer in general. I should have returned to therapy sooner or at least dealt with these issues a while ago. I took to heart what he said, that I have to start loving myself and fight for me. I've often wondered what I have been fighting for over the years and it's sad I didn't realize it sooner.

This morning I woke up, feeling stressed from talks about post-school life and self-destructive behaviors the night before. I looked down and saw my scars and tears welled up in my eyes. I lay in my bed wondering what to do on my day off. My sports bra was lying on my new bedroom floor in my apartment and it hit me.

Walking to the Rec Center, the sun felt so hot on my skin, but I welcomed it's heat. The heat drove me towards the air-conditioned workout facility. I stopped by my work place, grabbed a water bottle, and started to walk. Looking at the somehow still green trees out the large window fueled me. When I looked down, I saw the two lines I made a couple nights previously.

And then I ran. And I lifted, and worked my abs, climbed those stairs until sweat dripped down my nose onto the machine. All my anger at everything was left on those machines and fuck, it felt good. It was a release, one healthier than my other.

So I'll go back to therapy, not begrudgingly and in shame, but with my head held high. I can do this. I'll reward myself, once I've recovered, with a tattoo over the scars on my right upper thigh. It will be a perforated bow with a needle at the tip, like a thread being pulled through my skin. Sewing back up my past, so to speak, not my mistakes but my past.

Never forget, it will remind me, never forget how far you've come. And I will, it will just take some time and a bit more patience. I have to remember I'm worth fighting for always.