Why Do You Want That?

Writing is love, writing is life. Writing is the reason I’m still here, choosing life. I mean…sometimes it’s a real struggle, but writing (and Nichiren Buddhism) have kept me going. So, I can’t help it if I have a few dreams up my sleeves about it. It would be NICE to come up from it, but even if I don’t, I would never stop. So obviously between the dreams, the “projects”, and the questionable poems, I would imagine myself having a “space” or an office to live out my dreams. I also have several backup plans. Teacher, Social Worker, Grant Drafter, Admin. Hell, I’m looking at Chicago to take some coding classes while I visit.

I have about 40k of student debt, so it’s not like I’ve got the ability to be super flighty and ultra dreamy. I mean, I’ll always be somewhat like that. I’m my mother’s kid. But I’ve become realistic about some things. Not all persons who have the talent to write become great, established writers. It’s upsetting, but I’m okay with that.

I feel like my jovial nature gives people the idea that I’m in great denial or something. That the goal is to be a writer without a 9 to 5. That, you know, it’s straight to the finish line with no questions asked. I think about the fact that this writing thing may not work out all the time. Still, I want it. I want a part of it. I won’t turn my back to it. I’ll probably die at a computer of old age, trying to complete a novel I started at the age of sixteen. In any case, I would like for the people in my life to realize that I’m aware it might not work out. I’m aware that I need plans B-Z to survive this world.

I also need people to understand that my dreams might just be that. Dreams. Let me have that.

What I have always wanted is a “writing space”. Which technically could be anywhere I have my laptop or pen and paper, but I mean a space like Carrie had in her apartment in Sex and The City. A space like Claire had on The Cosby Show to enjoy herself. I have been dreaming of this space for the longest time. From job to job, poem to poem, and boyfriend to boyfriend. Writing is one of many loves in my life, and I’d like to have a place to set her free.

The idea was always going to be some small country thing. Doesn’t have to be a barn, for frack’s sake. Some tiny little ranch house that’s so small, it can only be an office. Some hole in the wall in the backyard, set up as I see fit, financed by me. I would never force anyone else in my life to finance desires that I’ve been building up. First of all, because I WANNA DO IT. Second of all, if it’s not agreed upon, I ain’t forcing anyone to pony up dime one.

That’s super defensive.

And I mean it to be.

The dream of my writing space is sacred and special. Deeper than a man cave or a chick cave. Or whomever’s cave. It’s a space outside the world where I can sit, open up, get it out, and not be distracted. That’s the main part! Not to depart from the world forever and ever, but devote some time to the one thing that brings me joy. Now imagine if I gave side eye to someone I cared about, if they had a similar dream.

I would get chewed da funk out.

The writing space is an extension of me. I may never get my ranch house. I might have to settle for a corner of a room, or an office. That’s fine. Dreams change as my life has changed. But in my mind, it’s always been somewhere down South. Always either been a shed or a bigger space. Always been covered in cute stained glass windows, wind chimes all over, and crystal things.

I can always relocate. The South isn’t the only place with a countryside. And why should I silence my dreams, anyway? Because someone else thinks they’re too airy or too stupid? Or whatever, for that matter?

Smash your own dreams but don’t come for mine.

What else do I want?

Nothing that big.

A dog. A cat. Some kids, and a decent ass life. I don’t have to have a million damn bucks. Just the kind of comfort that gives me some kind of hope in this world. I would like to be happily married, you know? Just keeping it nice because I never needed a big production to be satisfied. Just let me have my writing. Let me dream of my office space. Doesn’t have to be forced. I’m not demanding it!

But alas.

It’s all a dream.

149

I have to be super offensive for a minute.

Listen.

You are probably not someone’s fix for depression.

You might be something that makes the days better, you might be a shoulder to cry on, and you might be their support….

…..

….but don’t get mad and puffed up if they have a moment of depression. Don’t be salty just because they still have it.

If you know somebody who had it and got over it, that’s great. That’s them. Don’t tell that to the person you’re with, who is still going through something. Whether it is chemical or circumstantial, whether it is BOTH–don’t fucking compare them to other people. That makes it WORSE.

Why do people get so offended when you have depression?

“I’m here, so you should be happy and better.”

Well,

I had these feelings before I met you. I had them before I even knew what they were. I could never afford to get help for them. I’ve been analyzed a few times. Anxiety, Depression. Simple, direct. I know what I have.

You are a wonderful person. You are also a very annoying and hurtful person at times. You’re impatient and don’t understand things a lot, sometimes.

I think this is one of those big things.

You cannot expect me to erase all of this overnight. You say “I don’t”, but the commentary says otherwise. You are here, yes. I am happier, yes. But this thing isn’t going away so fast. And it would be incredibly great if my “supporter” would stop commenting on it like it’s a series of paperwork or some annoying thing they can’t handle.

I hear the tired tone in your voice.

I hear the exasperated sighs.

I feel/see/hear the inconsideration.

You are not medication. You are not a mental health doctor. You are but one imperfect person. I ask you to be there for me, not make all these comments about why I need to be happy.

That also implies I’m ungrateful for you being here.

There are so many things, I think, that need to change between us. If people are willing to change. It seems like we care so much, we talk about doing the work, but the obstacles make it harder.

Traveling, opinions, moods, excuses, family traits.

I mean…

You found a way to cope and be stronger than you know. I find ways to cope. But sometimes it’s overwhelming. It just simply is.

Well,

that’s all I had to say.

I think I’m supposed to be smiling and suffering in perfect silence or something. People–most of them–would rather not hear that you’re sad in such a world of privilege. I see what I have. Trust me, I see it.

I see it.

Not every moment is dark by the way.

Not every case of depression is textbook.

You cannot always solve every problem.

Just be there for me. WITHOUT the snarky commentary.

Yes, it’s snarky.

I wrote a poem about what it’s like for me.

Crossroads, Crossroads….

This thing about who goes where keeps coming up. Everyone has their feelings about why the other person should come, and now even outsiders have thoughts and commentary. Assurance was provided, but now a new conversation has my head spinning. Who’s right? Who needs to make the move for the next encounter? Who’s wrong? What’s this sinking feeling in my chest that eventually the bottom is going to fall out?

I know. Don’t think like that. Don’t speak on it. Yet here it is, in my face. I’m not made of money. I’m not in a position to pick up and go. I held my head high and wrote a long letter of honesty about it, and now that’s being seen as guilt. I’m broke, I’m working a job that barely pays, I’m in school, and I can’t split studying with pleasure. What’s so hard to get about that? Why does it still feel like this is all my fault, and the other person doesn’t get it?

So I went to Amtrak, Megabus, and Greyhound, the crappy company that I took on the way back. I don’t have a choice, as I don’t have a car, and now it seems like even “the usual” is asking too much. That was me going to Nashville, them picking me up, and us going to Brentwood. This last time, we took a 4 hour drive back after meeting up in Nashville. I mean, what can I say? I keep saying things. They keep getting bounced back. Last time I checked, I thought we were just trying to be together.

I am frustrated. I feel unheard in this situation. Or misunderstood. I don’t have a lot of options, and I’m not asking the moon of them. You need help with gas, take my card. You want some food, fine, let’s get a burger on the road. But don’t stand there acting like you don’t know what my life is like, and then expecting this over the top output.

Are relationships supposed to be this hard?

I’m trying to me be real as possible, not a guilt tripper.

I know they’re trying. It just seems like maybe they don’t think I am. Or I’m not willing. It just seems like everything else but this traveling and getting together thing are easy and come naturally. It’s complicating itself because we won’t bend. We can’t see eye to eye. I think that this is easier for people who have cars and jobs and steady paying jobs. Not so much for odd 30-somethings who don’t have it all together. For us, there’s an endless set of limitations to climb up and over. For us, things like long distance love become incredibly difficult.

The only other thing that I can think of is moving to GA. This costs money. This requires a lot more than I have going on. I can’t graduate fast enough, I can’t make money fast enough. Or find time enough. So we’re all these unsatisfied people with big dreams and slow progress.

I can’t believe he’d actually think any part of this is on purpose. I think that part bothers me the most. Even when I write a letter explaining everything, it still feels like this is lowkey my fault. I can’t just sit here and not do anything. That makes it worse. I don’t know what to do, but I need to do something.

I….

I am frustrated.

But like most major things, I will carry it quietly. I don’t know how to solve this right away. I can’t. And he’s upset and lonely and tossing hints at me that hurt more than he knows.

I don’t know what else to say.