The Anti-Resolution

Maybe it’s the nog. Maybe it’s the guilt resting in our bellies after a few too many bites of Mom’s sugar cookie dough. Maybe it’s the nasty cold air that’s frozen over not only hell, but our intellect and reason.

Whatever it is, each New Year we Americans feel an urge - an inclincation, if you will - to make New Years' resolutions. Along with 80 lbs. of unnecessary wrapping paper, we toss out yesteryear’s failed attempts and wake up bright eyed (partially because the snow literally blinds us) and ready to take on the world. Full of hope, motivation and focus, we march forth the New Year with grandiose plans of losing weight, quitting smoking, spending more time with Grandma Millie before she dies…you name it.

Don’t fret. I do this myself, and each year I successfully fail.

Yet, why do we feel the need to change something in our lives? Change implies we are doing something wrong; it connotates negativity, guilt, inadequacy.

Some people actually keep their resolutions – and hey, I whole-heartedly salute them.
However, most of us, once we sober off our holiday high, we surrender – we give up. Reality sinks in, and we’re suddenly too busy, too stressed, too overwhelmed to persist. Suddenly, our goals seem naïve, silly, unrealistic.

And where does this leave us? Empty. Sad. Guilty.
Another year, another failure.

Well, screw that.

This year, I propose an anti-resolution.
That’s right, I said it.

What if, instead, our New Years' resolution was to find something in our lives we enjoy, we are proud of...something that we don’t want to change?

Or perhaps…keep those old style resolutions, but also have a few of these anti-resolutions, too.
Sometimes we spend so much time filtering out the bad…we forget to nourish the good that’s already there.

So, think of a few things in your own life that you like, or that you think you’re doing right. Take pride in them. Remind yourself to not let go of them.

I’ll start it out.

Things I will not change this year:

1. My exercise routine. I enjoy de-stressing after a long day of work. It also elevates my mood and keeps my healthy and in shape. It makes me feel like a better person, both mentally and physically. I vow to continue to value that.

2. My blonde hair. Although the Jessica/Britney/Paris jokes get frustrating and old, and I perpetually worry that guys only find blondes “hot” and not girlfriend or marriage material…I will embrace my blonde hair and, like Elle Woods of Legally Blonde, I plan on proving to the world that blondes and brains are not mutually exclusive.

3. Eating breakfast before work. Even if it makes me five minutes late to work, I never forget to sit down and eat a bowl of cereal. Too many people replace food with their favorite mocha-frappa-espresso-latte-what have you. I will not buy into the craze…Caribou not the alter at which I worship!!!! Starbucks is not my bitch lover, either. I will cling to my Cheerios with part childhood pride, part healthy wisdom, because breakfast really is the most important meal of the day (without sounding cliché or like your family doctor).


I just wanted to get a short list started off. If you’re half (hell, a fourth) as self-critical as I am, it can feel like homework trying to find things in your life that you are happy about or proud of. Still, try to find them. Celebrate them.

Because, gosh, if you can’t celebrate yourself on freakin’ New Years – the biggest celebration all year – then when the heck can you?

:)

Whew.
Blogger's writing block...officially over. For now. lol.

So I got a job...

What I have learned so far at work:

Two of my co-workers had children at the age of 16. Yikes. I would sooner die.

Another co-worker currently has two children at the age of 24. Additionally, her ex-boyfriend is probably going to jail soon, and her mother has moderate to severe schizophrenia. She has asked me with my "psychological" expertise to help her...sorry, I don't offer free counseling sessions, nor am I qualified to.

Doctors and nurses are very, very specific about what they want, how they want it, and at what time and manner. Very.

Medical school includes the following course in its curriculum:
Doctor Writing 101: How to Write like an Epileptic Toddler and Laugh While Everyone Struggles to Decipher It.

The beautiful scenery on the streets of Chicago and Franklin, where I work:
- Shirtless children being pulled in shopping carts (apparently substitutes for strollers)
- Six year-old children babysitting several toddlers with no parent in sight
- Homeless people “dancing” and talking to themselves
- Valet drivers crashing into buildings, confusing me and my staff to think that Minnesota just had its first earthquake (actually happened, yes)
- Obscene graffiti on 50% of the road signs


I am entering my second week of work as a receptionist for Childrens Heart Clinic in Minneapolis. While initially thrilled to end my employment drought, I foolishly thought training would be a light rain - a sprinkle, so to speak.

Think again. I walked right into monsoon season, without even so much as an umbrella (silly me). Everything seems to be rushing at me at once. I’m trying to remember and memorize a zillion little things. I feel like I’m constantly paddling upstream…for every five things I take pride in learning or memorizing, I’m bombarded with ten more things that must also be memorized.

Childrens Heart Clinic is a very busy, very respectable pediatric heart clinic – one of the best in Minnesota. It’s stressful and fast-paced. A mistake on my part is big, because we’re dealing with children with serious heart defects/disease.

Some parts of it are fun. I like wearing scrubs; however, finding scrubs that fit me is quite a dilemma. I tried some on at the mall yesterday, and yes, while it is no surprise I am “petite,” their small sizes still managed to make me feel like a midget posing in Yao Ming’s jersey. I mean, seriously, it was like you could fit three of me in it, and twelve of my boobs (so you know that it must have been big, lol)


I feel incompetent, dumb, stressed, tired.

So for all of you out there who say “Wow, I’m loving my first job, it’s so wonderful and everything is great,” you’re either living in the most primitive form of human coping – denial – or you are one very, very lucky amigo.

Yes, with time, I will probably become less stressed at my job. However, I feel like I will never know everything in this place; even the receptionist that has been there for a year asks questions to the primary receptionist a lot. I mean, if she doesn’t know it by now…how the heck am I supposed to know it?

All this work has given me little time to work on grad school applications and essays, let alone try to figure out if I even want to go to grad school, and whether I want to continue to pursue psychology or completely abandon it and go to writing/English/teaching.

Sometimes I feel like I would be happier teaching, writing, expressing my creative side. I know I wouldn't really get an outlet to do that in a health or mental health setting.

Yet, starting over seems like such a hassle...getting another degree, going back to school...I really would have to be 100% positive I want to do it.

I also have to look at the long run...a career isn't just a month, or a year...it's decades long. What job will I have the most fun in, and have the least likelihood to burn out in? What will let me be myself the most, and allow me to be creative, yet challenge me? To me, teaching is written all over those questions...I just wish I didn't have to start over...

Quarter-life crisis = not my idea of fun :(

Song of the moment:
“Stop this train.” By John Mayer.

Soulmates: Fact, Fantasy, or Fiction?

Do I believe in a soulmate?
No.
I think that’s silly, and those who do believe it suffer from a perpetual state of naïveté.
I think it’s dangerous to believe in just one person.
I mean, holy crap, that’s a lot of pressure to put on yourself. One person? In this entire world? Yikes.

If there is just one person, I worry:

1.) How the HELL am I supposed to find this person, this one person?
(People who have strong religious beliefs would probably answer this with, “Live your life according to God, live by his purpose, lead a good life…and love will come to you.” Many of these people often marry too early, live too optimistically, and then stay in bad marriages while feigning a smile on the outside to their neighbors in Pleasantville.)
2) What happens if he or she dies?
What, then I’m just shit out of luck – and love – for the rest of my life?

No.
No, I don’t believe in one, single soulmate.
But…
Do I believe in soulmates (plural) ?
You bet I do.

See, here’s the thing:
I can probably find love everywhere.
I could stay in Minnesota my whole life and fall in love.
I could study abroad for a year in Japan, and find love.
I could move to beaches of Cali, a ski village in Colorado, an apartment in Manhattan…
and guess what, more than likely, I will find – and fall in – love.

I could find love, marry, divorce, remarry, have my spouse die…and find love all over again, at age 75. Crazy? Not really. It happens all the time.

I might have met one or two of my soulmates already. In fact, I’m pretty sure I have. I’m almost 100% positive I have.

So, who is a soulmate?
And how many do each of us get?
It’s hard to say.
However, this is what I believe:

I believe there is a small, finite number of people you can potentially meet in this world that you connect with on all levels – sexually, emotionally, intellectually, spiritually.

We date people all the time, and they may fit with us on one, two, even three of these levels. But if all levels aren’t in sync, then it’s not quite a soulmate.

Often times, we let an overabundance of one of these domains replace another domain.

For example, a man, or woman, who’s extremely attractive and sexually arousing may cause us to turn a blind eye, or ignore, the fact that we have clashing beliefs on spirituality. We might ignore the fact that he or she doesn’t carry a good, stimulating conversation and just let “the sex do the talking.”

We might find a man or woman whose intellect provides for many a stimulating conversation, and ignore the fact that we do not get butterflies when he or she kisses our lips or looks into our eyes.

You will date these people.
You might even love these people. But they are not one of your soulmates.

A soulmate fulfills all of these categories.

A soulmate is someone:
- you find very attractive, both physically and sexually
- whose sense of humor matches yours; who makes you smile and laugh
- who understands you and cares for your emotional well-being
- whose spiritual beliefs closely match yours
- who you can talk to day after day, and always come up with new, interesting, exciting things to talk about

There’s no guarantee that you will find all – or any – of your soulmates.
You might find ten of them - or you may never find one.
But they are out there.
And soulmates aren’t always the ones you end up marrying.
They might not even be available.
They might already be married.
They might be still heartbroken over a past lover.
They might even die the day before you would ever get to meet them.

But…they exist.
And as long as this planet has millions of people, with millions of personalities…
Soulmates will continue to exist.

Perhaps Dawson said it best:
(yes, Dawson from Dawson’s Creek…hey, don’t you dare snicker until you read the damn quote! :) )

Lilly: What's a soulmate?
Dawson: It's a…well, it's like a best friend, but more. It's the one person in the world that knows you better than anyone else. It's someone who makes you laugh, who makes you a better person, well, actually they don't make you a better person... you do that yourself-- because they inspire you. It's the one person who knew you, accepted you, and believed in you before anyone else did, or when no one else would. And no matter what happens...you'll always love them.

Writing as Therapy

(If you recognize this, it's because I posted it on myspace a few months ago. However, the content is still relevant, and it's more of my poetry...so yup, enjoy.)

I smile a lot in my pictures...but behind that smile, lies a darker side. A much sadder side, that most of you will never see or notice. My entire family (mom, dad, brother, various cousins/aunts) has gone to therapy and received medication for depression and/or anxiety. I definitely suffer from it, and I don't know if there is a cure...I think it's like anorexia, or an addiction...you are never fully cured, you must work at it every day. But there are things that can help. You might think, as a psychology major, I would have all the answers and miracles behind depression, but I don't. What I do know...is that therapy can come in all sorts of shades and forms. Therapy can be a night out with the girls/guys, or a night in with a good book (and a blanket/hot chocolate in hand, of course). It can be a hug from your mother, or a smile from a stranger...a laugh from a good movie, or a long, hard cry on the shoulders of a friend.
I find solace in writing...especially poetry. It speaks to me. Or rather, my heart speaks to me. See, when true, loyal friends and family are in high demand but low supply...I retreat to the darkest corners of my inner self. When thoughts in my head won't shut up and leave me alone...I lie down, surrender, and...listen. I ride the waves of my emotions, with my pen as my surfboard and my heart as my compass. Below is a representation my latest depressive wave...it was a rough one, and it isn't done yet...but I consider myself an excellent swimmer, and I'll be damned if I don't make it to shore sometime soon.


Today, I peel away this skin,
Today, I expose the pain within,
Im gonna rip my heart out, and hang it to dry,
From the clothesline draped with fading sky,
Below, in a bucket, Ill collect all my tears, and
Release the frantic flood of my fears,
Drip by drop, drop by drip
Here, my friend, come take a sip,
Drink it down, but drink it slow
Taste my hurt, and then youll know
What haunts, taunts me, in my sleep
What dark, dark dreams silently creep
Into my head, into my soul
Laughing, teasing on their tippiest of toes...
- unfinished (like most of my poems...sigh)

The Many Shades of Me

It's such a beautiful time of year...I'm continually amazed at the brilliant shades nature creates during autumn. One year I am going to pick a leaf from a tree, the same tree, each day, during the entire season. Wouldn't it be beautiful to track the subtle changes in color? I'm sure scientists have done a similar experiment(s), but that takes all the fun out of it. I'm not going to poke, prod, or otherwise adulterate them under a micsoscope. No, I'm just going put them in a scrapbook, or maybe line them horizontally and make a border for one of my rooms - that could be fun. Oh, ideas, ideas...

Anyways, I bring up changing colors because it reminds me of the many shades that I myself am, and the many shadows I cast, depending on what lighting I have. I will begin with a quote (since I'm such a quote whore):

"Each friend represents a world in us, a world not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born." - Anais Nin

Have you ever noticed that you are a different person with each person you come into contact with? Well, not an entirely different being; rather, a different shade, or hue, of yourself.

I've certainly noticed that. The Rachel I am when around Mom is different from the Rachel I am around my high school friends, which in turn is different from the Rachel I am around my college friends. I may be outgoing, witty, serious, political, goofy...all depending on who I am with.

What most fascinates me, however, is the many shades of Rachel that come out - or have come out - during different relationships or dates I've had. With some guys, I became intimidated, self-conscious, and/or stupid. I felt like a little girl. Yet with other guys, I became this sophisticated, intelligent and witty woman. It's almost like I radiate this unique color - let's say periwinkle (it's fun to spell and say) - and everyone else has a unique color as well. When we come into contact with each other...a new color arises...a new you is born.

Sometimes I get frustrated. I'll be hanging out with a guy and I'll think "No, no no...I don't like the Rachel that I become when I am with him. It just doesn't feel like...me."

I guess what I search for...is someone whose color, whose personality, will compliment mine. If I'm blue; I don't want brown...I want green, or perhaps a lavender, or pink...something that will go well with me.

I search for someone who, when I'm in their presence, when we're interacting, I think, "Yes, this is me. This is the Rachel I am." I want someone who underestands me, and makes me feel like I can be myself, that I can feel at home.

It's kind of like those shape games when you were little, you know the ones where you have certain shapes (triangle, square, etc.) and you have to fit them into certain holes that are those same shapes cut out. Well, I'm a heart shaped toy, looking for the right hole. Try as I might to date a square or a triangle, it will never work out; the fit is too awkward. I need a heart-shaped hole, so that I can snugly fall into the hole - and his arms.

So, that's my two cents for the day. Though, could I have those two cents back? Thanks *puts them in piggy bank* I sure need all the extra change I can get right now.

"Dying to Live"

I decided to intersperse some of my poetry into my blogs.

Back story behind "Dying to Live":

"You bleed just to know you're alive..." - Goo Goo Dolls

This poem sort of revolves around that snippet of "Iris" by the Goo Goo Dolls. It also stems from my own struggles with depression. Finally, it's an attempt to be the crying voice of every person who has committed - or attempted - suicide. Why would anyone go to such drastic measures? Specifically, why would one cut their wrists?
Depression often numbs you from the world; it blunts your emotions. There are no moments of extreme happiness, and often times, there aren't even moments of extreme sadness. Depression soaks up all your feelings, leaving you all dried up. You feel like you are just an empty waste of space, perpetually caught in a state of apathetic "blah." Basically, you feel like you are barely living.
What is one of the most obvious ways to know you are alive? Pain. If you feel pain, you know you are alive (unless you are paralyzed, but just go with me on this one). Maybe people cut themselves in an attempt to feel alive once again. Being in pain revs up the adrenaline, prompts the flight-or-flight response, thus intensifying everything - your senses, your pounding heart, your quickened breath. That'll certainly pull you out of your "blah." Additionally, physical pain has a way of trumping emotional pain. Obssessing over how much your life sucks, how heartboken you are, or how worthless you feel can be agonizing and, well, simply unbearable. Sometimes you'd rather someone punch you in the stomach, or slam your head against a wall - something, anything, to replace the emotional pain. Physical pain is a great way to force your mind to focus on more immediate problems (you're bleeding to death), and put those terrible emotions on the cognitive back burner.
With risk of getting too deep, I will leave it at that. Enjoy the poem. Comments are welcome.

"Dying to Live"

What if the very blood in our veins
Possess the
secret
to life, the essence of our
existence, the
end
to all strife?

Would we then not see suicide
As an attempt to die
But rather a
liberating,
courageous, though
desperate
cry

To release the
rushing
waves of
blue, for a chance to
feel the life we
never
knew

And as the pools of blue
spill
into red
We take
one final
glorious breath;
the most
alive
we’ve ever felt, but the
price of it – a paradox –
death.

They're Multiplying!!!

Seriously...people my age need to stop getting married. Maybe I'm crazy, but there seems to be an obscenely large number of recent college graduates who have either gotten married or engaged in the last several months. Every time I read a new couple's engagement in the local newspaper, or see another "theknot.com" link...I throw up just a little bit in my mouth.

While I'm sure many of them are happily in love, I can't help but wonder if some of them are marrying for the wrong reasons. Transitioning out of college can be scary (note: see last blog), and perhaps a marriage is a nice pillar of structure to lean against during these uncertain times.

Perhaps some women marry for the financial support. Perhaps some marry in attempt to feel more mature, or because it feels like "the right thing to do" after college. ("Look Ma, No Hands!" has turned into "Look Ma, I'm Married Like a Real Adult Now!"

However, young marriages suffer. A significant portion of the divorce statistic belongs to those who marry between the ages of 18-23. Do I take comfort in knowing that many of these young marriages that make me nauseous won't last? Maybe. Does that make me a bad person? Not really.

Why do I suddenly feel like a minority to be single? Is there something wrong with me, do I need to attend SA (Singles Anonymous) meetings? ("Hi, my name is Rachel and I'm...*gulp* single.")

No, there is nothing wrong with me. In fact, being single should be celebrated. To quote Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City (aka My Holy Bible):

"Think about it. If you are single, after graduation there isn't one occasion where people celebrate you ... Hallmark doesn't make a 'congratulations, you didn't marry the wrong guy'card. And where's the flatware for going on vacation alone?"

I have to say I absolutely agree with her. There should be a celebration in being single. It means you aren't marrying for money, or out of fear to be alone, or settling because you don't think you can get - or deserve - anyone better. Being single means you are comfortable in being alone, in being YOU.

People are often boggled by my single status. While part of it results from several dating fiascos - and my uncanny ability to find and be attracted to the wrong guys - a large part of it results from my refusal to settle. I don't need a guy to validate my self-worth. If I really wanted a boyfriend, I could have one. (Not to sound cocky, I'm just saying...)

However, I am a human being, and I do crave love. I love to love. I'd love to have a boyfriend to tickle fight, cuddle with on a lazy Sunday, have snowball fights with, to freaking make funny faces while they try to kiss me...stupid, dorky crap like that, because that's me, that's who I am. I'm a romantic, cynic, dork...all wrapped up in a delicious blonde-bimbo midget package.

I'm rambling...so I'm gonna stop. Plus I'm hungry as hell, my stomach is getting very angry with me. Toodles for now.

Oh, what to do with my life...

"So, we're going to pay you 11 dollars an hour to work with emotionally and behaviorally disturbed children. We will train you in how to handle their physical and verbal attacks. You will have to work Friday nights, early Saturday mornings, Sunday mornings, and various other shifts throughout the week. You will most liklely be working on all holidays, including Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years."

"Raise your hand if you want this job."

Silence.
(Even the crickets are afraid to make an appearance - or a peep - in this story...)


So, here's the dealio:

I studied psychology because I found it interesting; it intrigued me. I've always been a curious little midget, wondering why certain things happen, why we act a certain way, etc. (I actually used to go up in a tree with a notebook and binoculars to study my neighbors.) So, being the hard-working student that I've always been (I felt too guilty even taking a sick day in elementary school, I didn't want to get behind on homework NERD!), I graduated from college with a 3.9 GPA.

However, the study of psychology is quite different from the practice of psychology, and
I am just now starting to realize that I may have very little desire, or ability, in helping others with their problems. This isn't to be mistaken with lacking a heart - I am 86% certain that I do have one - I just don't know if I'm cut out for this role or profession.

I began college with hopes of majoring in English and Education. The funny thing is, I graduated with neither a major nor minor in either of those departments.

I've always enjoyed writing, and if I'm being honest, I think I am fairly good at it. I started writing poetry when I was eight years old, and wrote a notebook-sized novel when I was twelve. I'm not saying these pieces of writing were impressively well-written; I am merely stating that my penchant for writing began early on in life. I enjoy trying to find the right words to express something. Words, when carefully crafted, chosen, and organized, have an amazing ability to illuminate our souls, to bring to the surface these ideas and emotions floating around in our bodies. It's as if our emotions are fish, swimming aimlessly in the sea, and a good writer is able catch them, reel them in, and show them to us.

Actually, this isn't exlusive to writers. I often find this in music and art as well. Sometimes I listen to a song and think, "Wow, that is exactly how I feel." The melody, the harmonies, the tempo...all comes together and somehow manages to reel in those emotions and expose them to our ears. It's quite amazing. An artist may have a painting, and you think, "Wow, this is how I picture love. This, right here." It could be a painting of an old couple holding hands on a bench, or it could be an abstract combination of swirls, lines, and colors. Whatever it is, it manages to express the seemingly unexpressable.

So, there seems to be two sides of me:

1. The Rachel who thinks she should be a good little psychology student and continue on her merry way towards a graduate degree in psychology or social service, and enter a field she may or may not care to pursue.

2. The Rachel who enjoys writing and wants to pursue that avenue more, but knows that all writers are crazy, poor, lonely, or some madly genius combination of the three.

In a nutshell, being in a quarter-life crisis sucks. I am unemployed and not sure what path to take in life. I desperately want a job that I not only succeed in, but that brings me personal enjoyment and satisfaction - a job that taps into my inner passion and talents.

Yet, I have this terrible, terrible fear that I will thoroughly SUCK at whatever career I choose, and I refuse to be less than mediocre, and I never want to be a poser or a fake. I'm just too f*cking scared to make any decisions right now, because I don't want to go down the wrong path. Yet, I don't even know if there is a right or wrong path. I just have this fear, and it paralyzes me from being able to take any step forward right now.

Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Writing is easy. You just open up an artery and bleed." -- Red Smith

A Virgin on the Loose...

Popping my blog cherry...don't worry, I am using protection :)