Love Languages

 I know, I know. 

Not only am I late to the game; even when I wasn't late to the game, very few people cared about this. But I care. And it's my blog. Send it in the comments section if you truly are unable to help yourself. 

I heard about the 5 Love Languages a few years ago, found it interesting. Took a test. Found out my language(s). Years later: I have finally read the corresponding book. R, an amazing friend, recommended it to me and I couldn't be happier that she did. There are a bunch of fun things to read about / discover in it, but here's what I want to focus on today:

I think it's fascinating that the kind of love one requires may not even be the kind one gives. 

I suppose on one hand: there's no bloody use spending love the way you need it to be spent on you because, well, you're not going to date you. However, I typically try to live by the Golden Rule (by and large, anyway. There are specific exceptions). Here's the thing, though - I wasn't giving what I needed in romantic / love relationships. I was fluent in:

*    Acts of Service
*    Gift Giving
and as I got a bit older
*    Words of Affirmation

My love languages are:

*    Physical Touch (first and foremost)
*    Quality Time (in second place)

So what on earth is going on, here? What was I on about? I think, simply put: I was mostly being selfish with my time. My time was My Time and I wasn't very generous with it. There was so much I wanted to do! So much that needed to be done (work, cleaning, groceries, organization) and so much I was interested in (writing, reading, gaming, baking). And so much of that is more enjoyable (I find, anyway) when going it alone. 

The good news is: not only have I got more things I'm into now (cooking, yoga / exercise, researching / learning, PLANTS) but I have actually learned to share time. I have learned that time is the wildest, best, amazing gift you can give anyone. Especially in adult life. And it's not fucking easy. And sometimes it's gonna suck and you just have to weigh it out: can you deal with a little suckage at the price of your favorite person in the whole wide world being happy / knowing you love them / make efforts as an active decision to love them? Totes worth it. And, if I'm being honest, it's just so bloody easy to do it now because it feels good to know you're helping your fave human feel good. 

I know: sappy. I don't wanna hear about it. 

Next: Physical Touch. Simply said: I was not doing this because I was so sick of being pursued / valued only at face value / creepy men / being a woman blah blah blah. (Amiright, ladies?) But then I learned that you can choose your partners; you don't just have to date the ones who ask you out! You can make decisions! And if they're not creepy and they dig you and you're consensual: you're probably going to be more likely to want to touch them. And be touched by them. Pretty wild, eh?

I think another reason I was performing Acts of Service / Gift Giving / Words of Affirmation was due to my upbringing. (Not necessarily my parents, not necessarily not them.) The people I was around most as I was growing up were incredibly busy. They had no time. There was nothing they felt the could do about it. So it meant a lot to them that I took care of something. And being so busy / having so much to take care of (for so many years, in some circumstances), it was shocking and a delightful surprise when there was something tangible that I could bring to them to show them that I really thought about them. (Let this talisman mark the day that effort was put forth!) 

As far as the Words of Affirmation: nobody was nice to each other back then. It was the 90's. Matthew Perry lead the whole team with biting sarcasm. Jim Carrey did his part in Liar Liar. We were all terrible. Especially to our friends and loved ones. We had to convince ourselves - and everyone else - that we were light-years cooler than them. What a time to be alive. 

Anyway. It was a fun book to read, the test was interesting to take and it got my mind rolling. If nothing else: it was a cool look into relationships that I hadn't thought of, specifically, before. I feel like I have a shot at being a little better at relationships after reading the book. Perhaps I will read more relationship-y books. Once I finish my latest Shirley Jackson or Chuck Palahniuk I've picked up, that is. 

Destiny

 I have recently been shown / have watched / have finished a show called "Dark". It is about time travel and it is thick with events, thoughts and dialogue (I know because I read all of it - German to English subtitles. Time to brush up on my Deutsch!). Among this slew of rich happenings, an overall split of opinion was prevalent between the characters: 

Do our decisions/choices change our/an ever-altering future?
Or are the actions we take preordained and we have no actual choice in the matter?

I found this thought interesting because it brought me back to a time when I was in high school. English Class - aside from the Arts, this was the only class where I wouldn't find myself struggling in hellfire. (Ffffffuuuuuckk Gym Class, Math and Issues in American Government. Oh, and Latin.) We were given a prompt in this English Class. I recall the excitement I felt from head to toe; we had all been presented an opportunity to create an opinion piece! We were in high school - nobody cared about our thoughts and opinions in high school! Let alone cared enough to dedicate in-school hours to ponder over it. It gets better - the question wasn't some vapid bologna about what we did over vacation. It wasn't a team-building, get-to-know-you activity. The question was:

Do you think we have the power to make our own decisions/choices to change our future paths? Or do you think we are condemned to a preordained destiny?

I know. It's a lot like the previous thing I typed out in bold. Now you know why this memory was triggered. But how cool is that as a question? So philosophical, so thought-provoking while also being simply interesting to write and to read. And while it was understood that it was to be more than a simple yes/no answer, one didn't necessarily have to winge on and on about it to properly respond. Unlike the blathering I do here, on the blog. I have this irritating drive to be incredibly thorough when I answer certain things, let alone when I am left to my own, pondering devices. Anyway. My answer then:

I believe that the future is preordained; that it has been cast in stone. We are shaped by the people and events around us, certainly. However, I believe this is more of a shaping into what we were "destined" to be and less of a perpetuity of gambling and/or surprise. 

I believe I was the only student in the class who answered this way, to which my teacher responded with (essentially) a quick "Wrong." on my paper. I was crushed when I realized that this had not, in fact, been a thought-provoking opinion prompt, but a cleverly disguised way for the adult to tell us their opinion. And as far as I was concerned: we could have skipped the romance. I would have had more respect for her (teacher) if she had simply come out and told us what to believe. But of course, my respecting her could have been very low on her priorities. (I'm not certain; we never wrote that paper.)

Regardless of its actual intention: I still thought it was a cool subject to ponder on. So much so that I recently asked J what his thoughts were on the matter. (I would gladly write his answer here, but he hasn't given it to me just yet.) He then asked me my thoughts. I hadn't expected this, so I explained my experience the first time I had been asked-but-not-really-asked this question. By the end of that winded dialogue, I gave a quick thought. 

I realized that there was a chunk of time between the first time and this time where I believe the opposite. I believed that we were "in charge of our future". I think it was what I needed at the time/perhaps I had been whisked away by temporary optimism (band name; called it). Having that thought led me to ponder if the Preordained/No Choice Matters Theory was simply what I needed to believe at that time. I had done some work and come up with some coping mechanisms for my disorder(s) at that time. One of them could have been "if you are not in charge of it and you can AT ALL help yourself from having anything to do with it: just let it go". In other words: there were some things that I knew I could not change but would not be able to help obsessing over. However, as I got a little older (high school), I started to be able to peel myself away here and there of useless obsession of things I could not understand. But of course, as an accidental extremist, the only way I could do this was to pull away entirely. 

In other, other words: I found it incredibly helpful to convince myself that I had absolutely no hold/control over my future and that the choices I made had little to no impact. This was quite relieving to the nearly superstitious aspect to Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. 

So what's my answer now (literally nobody other than J is asking)?

I think that the entire concept of destiny is a bit romantic for me. And it feels so self-obsessed/human of us to even create such a term/idea. Are we, as individuals, truly that important - at least some of us (while others are NPCs) - that our futures are or are not destined? Is it even a question that needs to be asked? I am so sick of us. Naturally, this concept makes an interesting show or story, but I hate that we convince/have ever convinced ourselves that we matter that much. It's worse than the time we thought holding our breath while hopping on one leg in a tub of snake piss would cure the village of Dancing Plague.

Perhaps it reminds me of the worst parts of a/my disorder(s): superstition and needless guilt. With a pinch of arrogance, if I'm honest. Which I will later have guilt over. But as long as I hold my breath and lock the front door three times, I'll be back to it in no time. 

In closing: in my most comfortable state, I don't think we have preordained futures. I don't think things are meant to be. I also don't think our choices are as important as we think they are/we give ourselves a bit too much credit. However: at a slightly more uncomfortable / slightly more desperate state, I might use this superstition of "Well, wasn't meant to be." to better comfort myself. And in the end (as long as you don't go too extreme with it), I don't really think it'll hurt anybody to think that way. So I guess I don't see the harm in it. It's like the less harmful version of how individuals are treating the pandemic: just change the rules when you find it to be convenient. 

Enemies

None of this matters, but I've written it already, so here it is.

I have recently purchased two books with writing prompts / questions. 
One book has 300 prompts in general, the other has 642 "things to write about me"
After flipping through the latter, I have learned something about myself (and at not even a quarter of the way through):

People - presumably "everyday people", not necessarily massive influencers or celebrities - have enemies. 

I deduced this from the multiple prompts surrounding the topic. In example: 
    *    Your worst enemy writes his/her memoir. There's a whole chapter devoted to you. How does it begin?
    *    If you asked your first enemy to describe you, what would she say? (bold of you to assume it was a "she")
    *    List three people you consider enemies. Why so?

This is insane to me.

Now, these books may very well have been created for far younger people. In this case, I will say, the enemy thing makes more sense. Because at this "far younger" stage, your enemies consist mostly of the sinister wanks who always stole the good swing and the kid who wore their hair like you at your tenth birthday party.

However! If these books were not created for a particular age range, I find all the mortal enemy discussion very peculiar. (For those wondering; here are some prompts that I feel may be slightly inappropriate for the youngster audience:)
    *    What fad of your youth did not live up to the hype? Awfully dramatic for a youngster. Then again, so are "enemies".
    *    What are your rules of physical attraction? Have they changed over the years? Pardon??
    *    Describe yourself at three different ages. Well, one must be at least three different ages before one is able to write about being three different ages. 

 And if the prompts' intentions were for me to reflect on "enemies" of my youth, then what would it matter who they were? What would it matter what they would say about me? Furthermore: are we looking for what they would say about me back then? I hardly think anyone (including, but not limited to me) would care much about what my old enemies - with whom I have had little to no contact with for years, now - would say about me today. 

I can honestly say that I don't spend much time thinking about the people who I don't particularly care for. I don't care for them. Why would I think of them on my own time? I may think about them when they are around me because, regardless of my personal opinion on someone, if a person is physically around me I will think of them. Sometimes just in the same way one might think about the desk they're sitting at. A light consideration for the stapler atop it, etc... I do not try to not think of the folks who I don't particularly care for, I just don't. (Unless, of course, these people / this person could have a dangerous effect on me.)

I think about ghosts more than I think about "enemies".

I've gotten away from the point: Do adult people (let's say... people 20 years old and above) still have enemies?

642 Things to Write About Me assembled by the San Francisco Writers' Grotto,
                                                introduction by Jason Roberts

Hometown Adventures: Coffee Edition

 What is this panic that sets in us when we hear the words "Limited Time Only"? 
(Finite resources and/or time, you say??) It's similar to the reaction we give when faced with that question: "What would you do if you found out it was your last day on Earth?"

The idea is to "make the most" of what you've got when you've got it. The branch-off of that being, of course, that you will do this before you find out you've only got one day left. But hey - nobody's perfect.

I would like to think I am not one who falls victim to this attitude; this "Final Sale, Everything Must Go!" / "Get it While it's Hot!" way of life. I will get it once it is lukewarm, thank you kindly. Once the angry crowds have gone and I have decided that is is, in fact, something I actually want. (You won't find me out in the thick of Black Friday, if you haven't guessed. Catch me inside my home, how bout dat.) This isn't an exciting way to live, but I like it better than the alternative. However!

Upon recent meditations of skipping town, I have somewhat changed my tune. Since the very first weekend of this month (my last month in my hometown), I have made the decision to take myself on little adventures. Instead of spending time at my favorite spots, I have finally decided to branch out and try new spots. (Coffee shops, mostly. No bars. I am trying my damndest to stay out of trouble until I get to my new destination.) 

I am attempting to take advantage of living where I do for as long as I do. And at a nice, easy pace (as is customary for any Taurus worth their salt). And there's really no pressure, as far as I can tell, because I can always come back and visit. And this collection of coffee shops is more of a mere suggestion as opposed to a bucket list to check off. I figure if I've gone this long without them, there will be nothing lost if I "miss out". There is nothing to lose, in my eyes. Only the possibility of hammering out some therapeutic blog entries and - God-willing - another couple of pages in my latest story. (I simply can't bring myself to call it a "novel". "My latest novel". Ugh. Downright ugly.)

My home-state has miles to go in the way of accommodating the hungry, plant-based citizen, but at least the espresso has been good. And coffee shops, as a whole, are typically very cool, low-key places to visit, so they are ideal for someone like me. 

Sensory Time:
A favorite day of mine, the whole experience. Getting up early without an alarm. Easing into yoga in the comfort of my warm bedroom. Doing some light research online to pick out a new coffee shop / cafe. Popping into my car, Jasper, with the music playing me over to the next town. Maybe the windows are down and the summer scents fill the car. Or maybe the windows are up, the heated seat is going and the changing leaves fill the scene. 

I arrive at a place where I am unrecognizable. I snag an espresso (and perhaps a vegan snack) and find my way to a calm little space where I can tuck into my book or my laptop. The sounds of clinking silverware and demitasse sets. The occasional laughs between the staff, maybe one of them starts whistling along with the quiet music playing. 

I love the feeling of possibility and promise of the early drive. 

Okay let's finish this up.

This is similar to the feeling of visiting The Met coffee shop in North Conway. I wasn't able to get there very often (other than taxes and doctor's visits, if you do anything sparingly enough, it'll become enjoyable. A special treat). So when the magical apex of being able to afford the time and money presented itself to me: I would proudly walk down to The Met. There is something inherently adult about taking a jaunt down to "the coffee shop" on your own. Some kind of easy, beautiful independence. Perhaps it is the 90's-kid in me: watching Friends and seeing too many cop films where (between Axel Foley bars) the characters would always just be at the cafe. At the top of the scene. That's where you go when you're an adult. It is simply what you do.

Hopefully, I will be able to bring this attitude with me on my next adventure. You can tell a lot about a place by its cafes.

Impending Journey

 I am about to embark on a journey.

This entry will not be my philosophical musings on a topic. This will be my page to empty my thoughts and excitement onto. Much like a journal or diary. I am doing this because I remember stumbling upon some old (non-blogged) journal entries in my old acer pro laptop. 

The intention: I was given this acer pro laptop by my friend, A, for skyping purposes when I decided to move away for a job. 

The result: I typed out my honest-to-goodness thoughts for the first time ever. Putting every ounce of faith into my laptop's ability to require a password. Also hoping that I was not so predictable that my mother might guess said password. It was the first time I had ever thought honestly out loud. It was incredibly freeing and just what the doctor ordered. Especially at the time. (Also, my mother and I used this laptop, a pair of cheap speakers and our neighbor's wifi to stream our very first episodes of American Horror Story. Again: a godsend at the time.)

Reading the aforementioned journal entries (years ago) was so fascinating - to properly get a glimpse of how I truly felt and thought and what I was actually going through. No mixer, no sugar rim, no garnish. Straight up.

I at least got a kick out of the little things. The things about the North Conway Experience that I had forgotten with time. There's always something you forget. Some of these things are not written down / logged and are forever lost (and maybe that's okay / for the best). For everything else that was written down; I got to experience that ever-cool "Oh, that's right!" feeling. Many people might do this via photographs / albums. I move a lot (leaving little to no place for sentimentality in physical form) and am dreadfully uncomfortable with technology / the ever-dreaded phone switch-over (it only takes one bad experience to forever assume there is no safe place for photographs & playlists). And so, I write. In a laptop. because all it takes is: Charge laptop. Turn on. Enter password. Open doc. Write. Save. Keep laptop away from fire and water. Repeat. 

Now that I have changed the game a bit by adding my thoughts / journals to this site: I've got an extra step of back-up (if I am unable to keep laptop away from fire and water). If I need to purchase a new laptop: I can simply log on here. Of course there is the possibility that this site will somehow get f**ked sideways and/or the entire internet explodes, but this is less likely and also: if there is no internet, we've probably got bigger concerns than recovering my insightful and hilarious thoughts nine years ago on taxes.

Holy shit. Anyway. I am moving again. 

I am dreadfully excited about this. There are plenty of reasons why, but let's focus on the little things. This will be the first time I leave town without it simply being for a job opportunity. I have worked hard to tie up loose ends (and for everything else: I am finally allowing myself to let go and let god). It already feels like the smoothest transition I've ever experienced moving and I haven't even gotten to the moving part, really. It just feels different. I am simply drawn to the new place. There are no feelings of fear / irritation / panic / remorse / second-guessing... this simply is what I am doing and simply is the correct choice. There is no other option. Not out of desperation, but (finally) out of something more beautiful / organic / just downright cool. 

I have no idea what I am going to do down there for work, but it has never been an issue for me to find work (I recognize some of this is luck, but most of this is my absolute stubbornness and ability). I visited once and fell in love with the place. It feels sunny and safe, even when it's raining. It's beautiful and real. And not in that dollhouse-facade way that a resort might be or that North Conway absolutely was for its visitors. It's sustainable, not unrealistic. I feel comfortable there. Of course that could be the company.

My home town usually feels familiar and comfortable and controlled. Small enough to not be overwhelming. I understand it. Recently it has felt stale and uncaring and too familiar. Too small. Like a place I should get away from / the reason why I am not where I belong / where I should be. This place is starting to feel like the place I visit before finally going home. 

I am finally not devoured by worry of how this change will affect every single person who knows me. I have found - even for just briefly! - the sweet spot between being selfish and being wholly uncaring for myself. I have broken chains. It feels like that long joyride in your new whip. Windows down, arm out the side. Fresh, cool breeze rushing its way through your fingers. Sun warming your face. Killer playlist on blast. 

I would like to mention to my future-self: This last month was / has been rough. Friends / the community, the job, health / the pandemic. But it has been rough in a way that only solidifies that you have absolutely made the right decision. And a few sparkling gems were still to be found. A few beautiful people holding steadfast and/or a new person here and there left to surprise you in (simultaneously) the biggest and smallest way(s).

This is easily the happiest you have ever been.
So if things ever get foggy, I hope you find this entry and say "Oh, that's right!"

Being Good to Others vs. Yourself

 Is this a generational thing? Is it an adult thing? A human thing? Of this, I am unsure. What I do know is this:

It's complicated.

Forgive me if I have touched upon this topic in past blogs - I feel as though I haven't the time to check.

Picture this: you're in a bar with your buddies, some little puke comes up to your assemblage and spits some kind of nasty to one in your crew. It matters not if this is your best friend, sibling/family member, co-worker, casual friend, someone you just met... The instinct is to come to their defense, yes? Or in my case: catapult something you are convinced is scathing and hilarious (at least hilarious) at the offender. No second thought. It's clearer and more knee-jerk than instinct. Right?

Well why is it so bloody difficult to do this for yourself? In quite a similar / the same setting, even? Is everyone this way? Because I am nearly certain the majority (if not the entirety) of the company I keep feels the same way. Is it because we have a higher opinion of our loved ones than we do ourselves? Is there something in the back of our minds telling us that we do not deserve the back up that our loved ones certainly do? Or is it just that jarring to everyone when trouble comes our way that we will nearly always freeze and be unable to say anything for ourselves? This would certainly afford the air time for our friends (anyone, really) to say something / "come to our rescue".

On the other hand (you knew this was coming), if I was only able to stand up for myself and not others, I would surely whither away and die. If the missed zing opportunity didn't get me, the guilt would. This would also portray me as a coward. Something I actively am afraid of being! HAHAHA (had to). As for the other scenario: I would - at worst - be portrayed as the victim.

Ahhhh!!!! The plot thickens!

I hope I am absolutely not onto something, as it would make me positively ill to know that there is a very influential part of my subconscious infinitely fiending for a chance to be the victim. Although, for the record: I have to admit that it would be logical / make sense / is certainly a possibility.

It could be something as simple as: we love our friends more than we love ourselves. / We are more protective of our friends than ourselves. Which sounds noble and romantic but, in reality, could very well be unhealthy and problematic. (Unhealthy & Problematic: a low-key, low-angst E-girl / Indie crossover band for the ages. Or something.) But since balance is hardly ever - if ever - perfectly achieved and is arguably subjective, I suppose I would rather err on the side of friend-protecting than the other way around.

A Fate Worse Than Death

***this entry is heavily opinionated AND regarding sensitive topics AND is discussed in a possibly insensitive way and should not be viewed by anyone.***

Why does it feel as though our human society views death as this awful thing? More specifically: that literally anything would be better than dying / being dead?

Let's go through some examples (in other words: I don't agree and here's why):

Most of us have been taught / fascinated / horrified by remedies from days of old. One of these horrific remedies that truly sticks out to me is the lobotomy. For those of us who need a refresher: 

lo·bot·o·my

/ləˈbädəmē/

Learn to pronounce

noun

1. a surgical operation involving incision into the prefrontal lobe of the brain, formerly used to treat mental illness.

   "there was talk of performing a lobotomy"

First of all: if there's any talk of performing a lobotomy in your general vicinity; run.

Essentially: starting in the mid-late 1930's in the good ol' U.S. of A., civilians were coerced to get "fixed" by way of "professionals" jabbing them in the brain with a tiny, metal rod. Well, I suppose "tiny" would be in the eye of the beholder when the time comes to actually shove it - quite literally - in the eye.

Regardless. This lobotomy had quite a popular stint because EVEN THOUGH one would absolutely lose one's personality / artistic inclinations / sense of humor / anything and everything that made them inherently them, it was considered a better fate. A fate better than being (what people considered) unwell, I mean. And we can gab alllll day about the disgusting details of what was considered "unwell", but that is not what I have come here to ponder about. What I am trying to get at is this: 

Lobotomies essentially killed the individual it was performed upon. And yet if the people performing these lobotomies were asked why they didn't just kill the "unwell" / put them out of their misery (if they were going to treat these "patients" no better than livestock, you might as well come full circle), they would likely faint. For some reason, it was ingrained in everyone's mind (until the lobotomy, ha ha) that there was no contest; it was not an option to kill anyone, kill one's self, even have suicidal thoughts, but it was an option to have a bunch of mindless, empty, vanilla-mc-plain-wrap bodies droning around these Leave-it-to-Beaver 'hoods. 

Perhaps this was a rocky start. A squiffy example. Let us proceed with a slightly different slant:

It's just like our infinite battle against aging, or never-ending search for eternity. For some reason, even when individuals become catatonic, never to scientifically completely return again, modern medicine absolutely refuses to let anything natural happen. Now I have never been catatonic, so my opinion on this doesn't matter. But my opinion is that if I became somehow so mentally / physically traumatized that I completely lost any version of myself that I had ever been / ever wanted to be, I would rather not exist. I would pull the plug, myself, if I could. The day I suddenly need round-the-clock care, lose my independence / freedom to make my own daily decisions, am unable to freely and creatively think - the day I am no longer able to write creatively in the fashion I love to due to this fancied head-trauma is the day it's over, Rover. 

I know, I know; this is a slippery slope: should we take little Johnny out back and shoot him if he ever should break his leg or fall ill? In my opinion, no. This isn't even semantics. Because presumably little Johnny would still have his same personality and passionate drives (unless he is the world's most sinfully dramatic child).

Dear legal caretakers: If you have convinced yourself that I am able to communicate: ask me if I wanna live or not. If I am unable to communicate: feed me some arsenic pie, kill me off real quick and painless-like and let's call it a day, eh?

Anyway, just thinking.

Additional thoughts:

1.    human instinct to have hope: but what if this is the one case where the person does "pull through"?
2.    human inability to "let go": i'll just wait for another week, i'm just not ready yet
3.    some kind of religious influence: ...i don't have an example, actually, i know very little about this
4.    societal influence: doc: "if i let them die, i have failed!" patient's fam: "killing is heartless!"

These all just sound so bloody selfish. Who does this person's life belong to?? Why is this person not weighed in on the formula of reaction / when trying to figure out what to do with person's empty body?

Ugh.