I am not entirely as I want to be in writing this.  I am distracted, pulled towards things that have the purpose of pulling.

I have more feedback now than yesterday and I suppose that I need to process it in one way or another.

Yesterday was a bit heavy.  It felt a bit like I was handed some boulders and asked to keep them in my pockets as if they were marbles,  It didn’t fit and eventually, I saw,  I had to put them on the ground and take it a chip at a time. A big fuckin’ boulder of feelings.  It’s the sort of reaction I expect a teenager would have.  And in some ways I am like a teenager in my motivations, my expressions, my worries.  Everything gets really overblown really quickly.  Not that I’m not still hurt and confused, but I talked about it and maybe I’m also a few other things, too.

After meeting with my cousin/business coach and then my younger sister, I came away today with a different take on yesterday, on the letter, on what I’m doing and the prospects of June.

It’s weird.  It seems sometimes like I’m on the frontage road of life.  I’m still progressing, I’m still moving along, but I’m burning time and effort and oil starting and stopping and running at half-speed. That’s an annoying metaphor, but I’m sticking with it.  But I see after talking about it that this is just one more thing the perfectionism touches.  The more I say it and think about it, the more I see it as the first domino that fell.  It’s just one more thing I’ve left on the table because the way this is happening isn’t meshing with the way I assumed it could – or should – or would if I were worthy of it.

The whole thing scares the shit out of me.  But maybe it’s necessary.  Maybe it’s so not even about him or his timeline at the moment.  Maybe it’s just following the fear out of this inkwell where I swim its murky depths, both unseen and unseeing.  Maybe all our conversations are moot and that’s not even an option.  Maybe I want to do things before writing about them rather than the other way around.  No more maybes prefacing

When it was nebulous, I felt open, hopeful, willing to inch around the edge.  When it seemed as though the book was closed, I felt betrayed, as though a chance had been stolen from me.  When it’s up to me, completely up to me, I feel paralyzed.

Or I thought I did.  Maybe I can do this.  Maybe I want to do this not for the perfection laced in the moment, for expectations, for looking right, but because I don’t want to.  And my id has won out lately, and not for my betterment.  Everyone looked at me so earnestly today.  I didn’t see in their eyes some private opinion that I’m not able to do this.  It’s me.  It’s all in my head.

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