theyearthirtytwo

[theyearthirtytwo]

This is called manifestation.

I want to graduate from college with a 4.0 GPA before I turn 35. I want to hold my diploma and my baby in both of my hands. I want a completely stress-free wedding weekend. I want to feel that tiny jolt of energy you get when you thrift something really special, but I want it every time I stand at my kitchen sink. I want to feel the warmth of the sun on my face and I want to remember to enjoy it. I want to break my phone addiction even if it means admitting I have one, even if it means getting a flip phone from 2004 and carrying a digital camera with me wherever I go. I want to feel amazing in my wedding dress, but I do not want to starve myself to get there. I want to drink less alcohol and live as if I am already in the next stage of my life (parenting). I want to become a parent and then I want to raise that tiny human with the care and consistency they deserve. I want my husband to take a long paternity leave. I want to stay present with our new little family as much as we can. I want my kids to be good sleepers. I want a push present unironically and I want it in the form of a Lexus RX405 plug-in hybrid with knee warmers. I want to not ever really think about my clothes. I want a haircut that looks nice and takes zero effort. I want a house with character and light and hardwood floors that aren't plastic and no horrible trees that drop their droppings all over our yard. I want to continue to make time for hot tub dates and I want to start making time to read again. I want to never get a dog. I want to find a job that I like, with people I like, that pays me well enough to feel good about myself and my time but not so well that I feel guilty if I am not working all of the time. I do not want to work all of the time. I want to spend time with my children. I want to watch them become who they are. I want to read to them, and sing to them, and talk with them, and play with them. I want to really get to know them in their bones. I want a tennis bracelet for my 40th birthday. I want to travel. I want to be in awe. I want to create, but not at the expense of everything else. I want balance, and Shabbat dinners, and family time, and peace. I want my children and my husband to know they are loved and to feel it all the time. I want to fill our worlds with art and laughter. I want to be comfortable and happy and I want to realize it as it's happening. I want to spend time with my parents. I want to record our conversations. I want to document our lives. I want to grow a garden. I want to write a children's book. I want to continue to fall in love with every iteration of my husband. I want to keep cutting his hair, playing card games, and laughing with him every day for the rest of our lives. I want to die before him, but not anytime soon. I want to grocery shop with abandon. I want to throw caution to the wind, cautiously. I want the best towels you've ever touched. I want skylights, and windows, and french doors, and dancing sunlight, and disco balls. I want a big front porch with rocking chairs and a daybed. I want vacations planned around flea markets. I want collections so beautiful they bring you to tears. I want collections so ugly they do the same thing. I want to spend the next 50 years of my life renovating that pink dollhouse. I want to cheer just as loud at piano recitals and art shows as I do at lacrosse games and chess tournaments. I want my family to be embarrassed by my pride. I want a bathtub just my size. I want my husband to make me coffee every morning. I want great skin. I want a nose job so that I can finally, finally breathe. I want to play. I want to volunteer. I want to create community. I want to belong. I want the best of everything, according to me.

[theyearthirtytwo]

What I am not.

Though I would love to be,

I am not altogether productive.

I doddle. I doodle. I daydream. I am wholly unfocused.

Though I would love to be,

I am not disciplined.

I don't stick to things for years at a time.

I'm not particularly interested in routine, even though I thrive off of it.

Tell me I have to do something and I rebel.

Tell me I'm getting graded and I'll excel with reluctance.

Though I would love to be,

I am often not satisfied.

Or I am not paying attention enough to be.

Or some combination of those truths.

I love things. But I don't often like them.

I am not productive.

Or disciplined.

Or satisfied.

But I am not useless.

Or lazy.

Or discontent.

I am simply tired of excavating what it means to be human in a world where everyone else would like to tell you what you are, instead of discovering yourself.

[theyearthirtytwo]

Day 301

My goodness, everything has happened.

We got engaged. (ONE MILLION EXCLAMATION POINTS)

I am submitting my Offer in Compromise. (today!!!)

I am enrolled in a bachelor's program at Southern Oregon University.

I'll attend online for the next year.

I am going to be an aunt.

My youngest sister is moving to Madison, WI.

I cleaned out 32 years of memories from my parents' garage.

We came up with a tentative life plan.

We aren't planning a wedding. Instead, we'll get married at the Courthouse in Marion County.

I am really (finally) feeling like I am coming into my own.

What a phrase. What does it even mean, really? Coming into my own. According to the Oxford dictionary it means: to become fully effective, used, or recognized. "He has come into his own in the last ten years as one of the most successful advisers in the art world."

This weekend we were driving home from camping with aforementioned youngest sister in the car. She asked both Michael and me what we would choose to be excellent at if we could guarantee excellence. My answer was swift: motherhood. I would choose to be an excellent mother.

Since then, I've been noticing more intently the mothers around me and my inner self: my dialogue, my thoughts, my feelings, and how all of those in combination with another make up my actions. While I'm pleased to find that I am generally kind to myself and to others in both thoughts and actions, there is improvement to be made to reach excellence levels.

I've noticed that I am not my most confident, lovely, engaged self when I spend too much time on screens or in loud places. I'm not my most elegant self when drinking alcohol. I'm not my most productive self when I spend hours on my phone throughout the day.

I am my most engaged self with the phone entirely removed and when having conversations one on one. I am my most confident while wearing clothing that I find comfortable and flattering, when my hair is "done," when my skin and teeth are well cared for, and when I am hydrated.

I am most productive in a clean, calm space - free of dust and dirt and stains and things. As a lover of things, this realization is particularly devastating, though true nonetheless. After some serious consideration (and research), I have decided that this doesn't mean that I won't be happy unless I donate all my worldly possessions, adopt a minimalist lifestyle, and move into a van. However, this likely does mean that I'll have to be more particular about what items come into our home, how I organize them, and how often I clean them (and the space they occupy). Learning from my experience cleaning out my storage area at my parents' home, I know that this process will be daunting and often unfun. I also know it will be rewarding beyond comprehension and an excellent training for parenthood.

Cleanliness might be close to godliness (which I don't believe in, so I'll substitute for) excellence.

[theyearthirtytwo]

Day 224.

I have a good friend who encourages me to create. She tells me whatever it is I decide to make will be the best version of that thing that ever was. She's generous and enthusiastic and a damn good cheerleader. She's also solid in a way that I aspire to be.

Last night I brought her dinner and wine and glutenfreenutfreeeverythingfree mini muffins (Abe's) and she put her baby to bed and we talked and talked. Again she encouraged and again I made excuses and finally she asked if she could help keep me accountable. So now I have five (edited and good) pages due on May 17th. I can write them from scratch or I can edit something I already have. There are no caveats and no rules except for five good pages.

Thank god for good friends.

I wrote one page tonight and while I wasn't feeling inspired and I don't much like what I wrote, I see that it has promise and it feels good to get something down. It feels good to not procrastinate.

I had an idea recently. I wanted to create a mural for a nursery themed after Oh, the Places You'll Go! So I did.

I have so many ideas and so many reasons why I couldn't or shouldn't just make the damn things. Write the novel. Start the non-profit. Try to sell the children's book. Create the children's books. This felt like a good start toward just making the thing I want to make. Make it for me. Who cares if it sells. Who cares if it goes viral or makes me a million dollars or makes me any money at all. Make the thing to make the thing. That's what I'm going to start doing.

[theyearthirtytwo]

Day 222.

My mom's favorite number is 2, which always feels like an omen whenever the number, or some iteration of it (22, 222, etc) pops up. Today is day 222 that I have been thirty two years old and I am afraid. I am afraid that I will never figure out what it is I want to do with my one and precious life in some lasting and meaningful way. I am afraid that even if I do figure it out (or already know) that I will not have the discipline or gumption to actually do the thing. I am afraid that I am wasting my life and wasting my time. I am afraid that people I love will get sick of hearing me talk about it. I am afraid of being afraid.

I just realized that this tumblr has a "page 2" now. I kind of assumed you would just scroll forever like my tumblr of the past, but this one you have actual pages and I am only now on page 2. There's that number again.

Apparently, I've this is only the nineteenth post I have written, when it "should be" the 222nd post. I have reached 8.5% of my goal. Yikes.

[theyearthirtytwo]

DAY 193.

I had to type "days since September 8th, 2022" into google just now. It's been... awhile... since I've written anything here and frankly, I fear I'm only writing now because I'm procrastinating. But I am also here because I am currently 5 hours into Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking and her writing is inspiring. Beyond inspiring. It's Joan Didion, she's a goddamn wizard. Inspiring... truly, inspired, Sharlyn.

In addition to Didion, I am here because I am days away from completing the Associate's degree I will earn at 32 and I am spending an incredible amount of time pondering what I will do with myself now.

I think I've decided to write the book that I don't want to write. I think it's my best shot at a foray into the world of being a published author, a world I am so desperate to be a part of, a world my soul seems to long for, and yet a world I have seemingly purposefully avoided by refusing to write anything of note. So that habit, along with others that aren't so helpful in building the type of life I hope to build, are out the window. Now? I write. Even when I don't want to. Even when it isn't flowing. Even when it feels forced or bad or worse. In the same way I trudged through school. Just get it done. It doesn't have to be great, though sometimes it will be. It doesn't have to be pretty, though I wish it were. It only needs to be done and it needs to be done on time and to my greatest ability at the time, though that will waver. What's that quote? "Inspiration finds you working?" - Ok, Picasso.

Then lets get to work.

I realized recently that all of these lives I imagine myself wanting, that I try on for size in my imagination or on a secret pinterest board soon to be archived, or out loud while alone in the shower or car, are lives I actually can create! I can write them. It seems incredibly obvious, embarrassingly so, but it's the truth all the same: I just realized this. I can write them.

So I'll write a few hundred different lives for myself. And maybe, if the collection is good enough and I find the right editor and publisher and agent and marketing team and the moon is on my side and the cards are in my favor, maybe I'll make a best sellers list, or some money, or both, or both and enough money to actually start living out whatever dream life I cling to hardest once the book has made its debut. It'll likely be Italy, until I visit somewhere more enchanting, and then it will be that place. Is there such a place? I hear Croatia is great and I'm sure I would love France, and Spain, and Portugal. France, maybe France.

But for now, the writing. I've just got to do the writing.

[theyearthirtytwo]

DAY 68.

I came here today to tell you (you?) that I wanted to own an estate sale company. Somehow, between the time I opened up tumblr and started this post, my heart took over my fingers. I typed in the archived name of my old blog and scrolled. Scrolled, Scrolled, Scrolled until I got here:

to this photo from artist Leah Goren. I remember wanting this scarf so badly, but it was something like $170 and I just couldn't afford it or justify going broke for it. I remember I wanted to frame it on textured off-white paper. I always have had good taste.

Anyway, this photo stopped me in my scroll. I clicked. Leah Goren has, apparently, had quite the career since I fell in love with this scarf almost two decades ago. (holy shit). She's created patterns for Anthropologie, designed the covers of numerous novels, released three books of her own, created illustrations for advertisements, the New York Times, and Cup of Jo. Essentially, she has my dream career.

How many dream careers can I realistically have?

This isn't a rhetorical question. Maybe the words "dream" and "realistic" just don't belong in the same sentence.

We went out last night with a colleague of Michael's. It was a fun evening full of cocktails and conversation. I had a good enough time.

The problem is that I get so anxious whenever someone asks me what I do. I'm not ashamed to tell them that I nanny. I'm a little ashamed to tell them that I am going to community college at 32. But I am for sure ashamed to tell them that I don't know what I want to do once I'm done with school. It feels so juvenile. I hate it.

What I do know is that I want a career that is fulfilling. I don't want to have to question if I am doing the "right thing" or working for a "good enough" company. I want to make something with my brain and with my hands. I want to make enough money to never really have to worry about money all that much and I want to do that without having to work 80 hours a week (or even 40, if I'm being honest). I want to do a job that I think is cool. I want to do a job I am excited to tell people about.

I still think that could look like owning and running an estate sale company. I think that could look like being an author and illustrator. I think that could maybe even look like both. And maybe I flip houses "on the side." I think it could look like all three.

[theyearthirtytwo]

Day 66.

I am proud of myself.

Lately I've been feeling completely over school. I can't be bothered to care and I can't be bothered to do more than the absolute minimum required work. However, my absolute minimum is still pretty damn good, and I'm proud of myself for that.

The other day I was telling Michael that while I am glad I decided to go back to school and get this associates degree and keep my doors and options open, most of what being back in school has taught me has little to do with actual knowledge and everything to do with skill. My ability to amplify minimal effort into great results is now quite astounding, and my critical thinking skills are sharper than they have ever been. I'd like to think I am more self aware, too, but I probably am not the one to judge that (though I do get points in my favor for recognizing that).

This little blog is helping. Flexing the muscle of writing just for the heck of it (and sticking to it as much as I can) is really working for me. I get excited when I have enough time in front of my computer to put some thoughts on a page.

I wrote a children's book for adults in the form of a poem the other day:

What if...

What if I spent the rest of my life just staring at my phone? Missing sunsets, and babies that pass by in their buggies pushed by mommies with pink hair and daddies with red shoes.

What if I never write the thing I dream of writing, or make the thing I dream of making, or give words to the feelings inside of me, or marry the person I love.

What if I forget your name, someday, what if I forget mine?

What if I deleted my social media accounts, got a flip phone and some duck boots and moved to an island off the coast of Maine - to a tiny cottage with an ocean view where I spend the rest of my days working at a hardware store and baking pies and not doing much of anything at all.

What if we fell in love? What if it was finally the right time?

What if I adopted a tiny dog named Scott, or Dave, or Buster who only had one ear? What if I put it in a sweater just its size and took it on walks as short as its little legs, and read it bedtime stories every night and showed it how safe it was with me?

What if my life is exactly as good as it's ever going to be, right now - not next year, or the year after, or the year after that, or when I finally get that promotion, or win the lottery, or have a(nother) child?

What if I noticed how the shadows danced along the wall in the afternoon sun? What if I really tasted the tea on my tongue? What if I paid attention?

What if I stopped complaining - about totally predictable things like dishes or bills and completely unpredictable things like the neighbor kid giving me a cold or the whole in my sock?

What if I laughed at every joke, even the bad ones?

What if I smiled as often as I could remember to?

What if my life is exactly as good as it's ever going to be?

I think that might be my niche... board books for adults. Poems that aren't poems. Poems that are whole books. Books that don't need illustration, but might have them anyway. Books that could have been a single page. What if....

[theyearthirtytwo]

Day 64.

Typically, if I have an idea I sort of just... have it.

Most don't make it far past this stage. Some make is as far as the research stage, where I spend any amount of time between 2 minutes and 46 hours researching anything I can possibly think of tangentially related to the idea. But most don't.

I have millions.. billions(?).. of ideas basically just floating around in idea purgatory, with no hope of ever being selected for anything more. They don't get to go to heaven (where something actually comes to fruition) but they don't get released to hell (formal abandonment) either. They just... exist. In existential discomfort.

Forever.

This time, I'm trying something new.

This time, I pushed passed the research stage ever so slightly. I created... something.

Spurred by yesterday's musings of art worth doing anyway and a conversation with our couple's counselor about "pulling my own weight," I am pursuing the idea of making some money from my hobbies/talents/skill/art... whatever you want to call it. I am trying on making a little extra money from this thing I love, but still having a main source of income on for size. And so, the natural first step is putting some pieces in place to make that money.

Which brings us to.... thrifting.

I fucking love thrifting. I spend most of my Saturdays sifting through rack after rack, shelf after shelf, store after store of other people's throw aways. Nothing gives me the dopamine hit that a really great piece of handmade pottery being sold for $6 does. Or a cashmere sweater, or down coat, or not-quite-matching pair of converse. The sheer thrill of finding something I love that someone else decided they could do without for 99 cents can not be topped.

And so, I spend my Saturdays chasing that thrill. It's so commonly known that I spend my Saturdays chasing that thrill that friends and friends of friends have started asking me to show them how to chase that thrill. Which brings me back to money.

I have created a youtube channel, squarespace blog, and applied to host an Airbnb experience all around the idea of taking other people thrifting. I have no intention of re-selling my finds the way most other youtubers who vlog about thrifting hauls do, but I am a good storyteller and a decent hang. I figure, if I am going to spend my time doing this anyway, I can at least document it when I am not hosting an experience, and I can at least make enough money to pay myself back for the items I thrift when I am hosting an experience.

Who knows, maybe someday I'll have a youtube following sufficient enough to live off of advertisers alone. It's not unheard of!

So I've taken a couple action steps. I have 2-3 weeks to wait before I hear back from Airbnb on my application, but I am going thrifting tomorrow. I better have my phone fully charged.

[theyearthirtytwo]

DAY 63.

What if I never make money from my art?

Would that be such a bad thing? If I continued creating, and trying new things, and learning every day of my life until I died or needed a rest.... and never made a penny from any of it?

What would be so bad about working a regular job that offers me regular adult things like a pension and health insurance and maternity leave and then coming home and making my children dinner and putting them to bed and then sneaking away to steal an hour for myself at the end of each day.. writing or painting or bending metal wire into specific and interesting shapes?

What if my example to my children was not "art can make you rich" or even "art can pay your bills" but rather "art is worth doing anyway"?

What a beautiful idea to try on for a while....

[theyearthirtytwo]

Day 56.

I wrote this a while ago, but I think it belongs here:

The thing is - I think I could write. I think I could write in a way that changes a few lives, and ruins a few marriages (probably mine), and makes people fall in love and then later leave that person because that’s just who they really are - a person who leaves. But the only thing I’m writing is a template email for someone else’s career that I do not care about. I cannot stress enough how much I do not care about this other person’s career and yet? I am grateful that this other person cares enough about their career to pay me to essentially do the things it takes to have a career, but better, and once. It’s my job to make their job easier. My job that I also absolutely do not care about but that comes with partially paid health insurance benefits and bittersweet chocolate morsels of commission checks sometime after the 8th of every month even though my employment contract says they should come on the 5th. So because of the health insurance and the polly pocket commission checks and the ability to work from my bed when I want to and the ability to pretend I am working when I am not, I write these peppy and manipulative email templates instead of writing what I want to write - a letter to my best friend telling her I am in love with her (I’m not, but I’m jealous of her girlfriend anyway), a letter to my boyfriend telling him I no longer love him (I do, I’m just angry about it), a thriller or a crime novel or a short series about a woman who moves to a small town in southern Oregon and is afraid of everyone for good reason, a children’s book about a weasel, and then twenty-seven more children’s books about the same weasel that eventually make me enough money I no longer have to think about what I am not writing, a coffee table book of short stories about the make believe and reality that happens in all of our lives behind closed doors, a poem that doesn’t suck - just one poem that doesn’t suck. It’s harder than you think to write a poem that doesn’t suck. 

And I still think I’m a good writer. I still think I could ruin a few lives and change a couple of marriages (probably yours). I still think I could absolutely convince someone to leave the person they love if I wrote them the right letter at the right time - the key is the right time. 

Someone once asked me, fourteen minutes into knowing me, what I might bring to the table if I found myself in prison. How would I contribute to the society within those walls? What would be my collateral? How would I provide enough value to keep myself safe? He didn’t mean this to be as profound as it was. Then again, maybe he did, but I didn’t think he was profound. What was profound is how quickly I knew the answer - I would write for them. I would write their letters home - convince their husbands to stay or leave, to send them money or to stop calling, whatever they wanted. I would entice a lawyer to take on their case. I would secure their parole. I would win their children back over - they would start coming to see them on visitation days again - packing up their five children and a dozen peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the cliche station wagon and drive the 4 hours upstate to see their criminal mother because my letter changed them - warmed their heart to this stranger they used to hate - who birthed them and then sort of stuck around to raise them when they weren’t dating men who dealt cocaine or spending weekends delivering packages of said cocaine, or, I’m sorry, “unknown contents” across three states until they got caught. again.

I would write for the women in prison because I can make people laugh or cry by the way I arrange words on a page. Because I can make their own heart jump out of their chest and into their hands. Because the world that lives inside my head is more beautiful than the world that lives outside it and they remember what that felt like too. Because it's the only thing I like doing - even when I hate it. 

But I am not a writer. I am a sales manager for a company I do not care about because I am too much of a chicken shit to ruin my own life. Because apparently it would take prison - my life being ruined anyway - to do the one thing on this planet I actually care to do. Because I am playing day trader with my own dreams. I am sacrificing my words and my time for a partially paid health insurance plan and pea gravel disguised as commission checks. 

I might not be the world’s best writer. After all, I can’t even come up with a succinct way to end this rant about what a great writer I think I am. I barely even know what the word succinct means. 

But I am a good writer. I’ve ruined a few lives over it.

(mostly mine).

[theyearthirtytwo]

Subscription Substack. Blog. (subscription?) Books. Children's Books. Reality Show Producer. Feetfinder Star. Greeting Cards (etsy). Journals (etsy). Guided Journals (etsy). Estate Sale co. Flipping houses (that I find via estate sale co)? Jeff Wong's biggest fan.

[theyearthirtytwo]

Day 55.

I know I am a writer because it is the only thing I will not do. 

I will not sit down and write something worth publishing. 

Instead of writing I google “how to be a writer” and “how much do writers make” and “how to stick to a daily practice.” I have never stuck to a daily practice in my entire life. I would love to know how, but alas, I do not know how. 

Instead of writing I create elaborate excel sheets I will fill out once and never look at again. I will decorate a pinterest board full of inspiration for lives I won’t live, houses I won’t buy, and books I won’t write. I write an email to my boyfriend apologizing, again. I aimlessly scroll twitter because I deleted instagram. I distract myself. I distract myself. I distract myself. I come up with excuses. I distract myself. 

Why won’t I write?

What am I afraid of? 

Failure? Success? Writing something so good I could never write another thing as good? Writing something I think is so good but no one else seems to notice or care? Writing something bad that actually gets published and then having to live with my name attached to that bad thing forever? I wish I knew what it was so I could etch-a-sketch it away in an ayahuasca ceremony in Montana (something else I have googled while distracting myself recently).

I just saw a clip of Bo Burnham, yes, the comedian, talking about the monetization and colonization of our attention by social media companies. Not to brag, I had already deleted my instagram, but upon watching this clip on Twitter (a social media site recently purchased by Elon Musk, a supreme jackass, that is apparently headed for total destruction), I deleted my Twitter, Facebook, and Pinterest accounts too. I don’t need to spend another moment comparing my life to anyone else’s, especially on a hamster wheel dedicated specifically to making me spend as much time as possible comparing my life to other people's. It feels awful, and quite frankly, I'm pretty good at feeling awful all on my own.

To quote myself "I can't even come up with a succinct way to end this rant... I barely even know what the word succinct means."

I will, however, leave you with this:

I would love to find a way to stop getting in my own way. I would love to find a way to stop wasting my own time. I would love to find a way to write and I would love to find a way to get paid enough to live my life by putting words on pages.

To quote my tax attorney "I am a good girl."

(that has nothing to do with this, it's just the mantra I've been carrying around with me lately)

[theyearthirtytwo]

Day 16.

I'm starting to see it, the life I want. It's showing up in glimpses and shadows. It's specific, precise. It's begging me to pay attention.

For the last couple of years it's been hiding from me. I abandoned a life I very much loved and worked so hard to get, a life I felt like I had earned, that the universe had gifted me, for one I wasn't excited about. Maybe out of fear, maybe out of weakness, probably both. And because of this, I stayed mad at my partner and mad at myself for so long. How could you do this to me? I said and thought about both of us. How could you do this to me?

I was to blame. I made the desperate choice to leave a place that very much felt like home to me and move to a place I barely even liked. I panicked. I forced it. I was so far out of flow. I think that's why I've "hated" Bend the way I do - I hated the circumstances. I hated the choices. Admittedly, it's a pretty nice place.

But now, I'm ready to move on. I'm ready to forgive myself and forgive my partner for my rough landing (the only thing he can reasonably take blame for) and just decide what to do next...

I don't know what that looks like concretely.

But I know it looks like dancing shadows, like old windows, like sunlight. It looks like laughter and music and stories and love. It looks like writing and drawing and learning and walks, so many walks. It looks like simple and beautiful meals. It looks like collections. It looks like connection. It looks like a lot of time spent in an old tub. It looks like building a home together. It looks like commitment, like hope.

So I'm going to try a thing:

Dear Universe,

I would like one house please. I would like that house to be a cozy two bedroom. Please include a clawfoot tub, lots of windows, a sunroom, a mud room, a large kitchen, a large garden, and trees. I am also requesting cedar shake siding, painted wood floors, and a window in the bathroom. Please have it face North or South and get plenty of natural light. Thank you.

[theyearthirtytwo]

Day 15.

It's been a week since I've written anything here. In my defence, it was my birthday (celebration) weekend, and then the first week of school combined with my first of two nanny boys (again). It's been a lot, but I am proud of the way I have been managing it all.

Yesterday I had therapy and I while sometimes my "revelations" in therapy feel repetitive, I am still proud of the progress I've made.

I need to find a way to be myself and be in relationship.

It's the reason I started seeing my therapist to begin with. It's part of the reason I was ok not dating my partner to begin with. It's part of the reason I came back and asked for a chance to try.

I get into relationship and abandon myself. It happens time and time again. The only time I didn't really do it was with Geoff, but I can assume that his dependant personality and complete willingness to abandon himself for me could be to blame. I didn't need to shape-shift, because he was.

Last night my boyfriend wouldn't be home until later, so I decided to try to lean into the last (possibly only) version of myself I truly loved being: California Me. After therapy I went to Newport Market and picked up a bottle of wine, some fancy pasta and cheese, (all for me) and some fresh hop beer to be thoughtful and loving towards my boyfriend. While I was there, I chatted with some very nice men, offering advice on beers, wandering the store slowly. I love fancy grocery stores. When I got home I put on an episode of Modern Love: The Podcast that happened to be about personal sensuality and pleasure, which felt a little something like fate. As I cooked my dinner and drank a coffee mug of wine, I listened to the women on the podcast describe her ideal night of romanticising herself. Nearly word for word, she described my typical California evening alone: put away your phone, make a sensual dinner, pour yourself a nice glass of whatever you're drinking, turn on music or audio that makes you happy and relaxed, light some candles, take a nice long bath. I miss those nights. I miss that version of myself.

I need to find a way to be myself and be in relationship.

How, exactly, I do that seems very foreign to me. Does this require more boundaries? More alone time? Moving? I'm still trying to figure this out. Luckily, I have a partner committed to figuring this out with me.

[theyearthirtytwo]

Day 8.

I don't feel like writing today. I'm pretty exhausted. Having two days of therapy sessions in a row will do that to a person, I'm learning. I'm also in the danger zone, emotionally. Meaning, my period is starting in the next few days.

Normally during this time, I'm ready to burn my entire life down and start over. Last month at this time, I cried for four days straight and my partner made it his personal mission to find us a therapist. Thank god for that man.

If this was a blog post, I would be plugging Flo Vitamins now. I ordered flow after months (years?) of PMS so bad I was truly worried I was going to make some irreversible decisions based solely in my hormones. I've been taking them for about 6 weeks now and can already see a difference. This time around I am definitely still feeling tired, emotional, and more irritable than I am off my period, but compared to the month prior I basically have the patience and emotional fortitude of Mother Teresa. (I had no idea Teresa was spelled like that)

Yesterday I mentioned feeling hesitant to tell my partner about my dream of owning multiple houses in multiple places and not having one home base, but a bunch of home bases that essentially pay for themselves. Last night, I had approximately one glass of wine and that was all the courage I needed. I told him and he responded well! Better than I could have anticipated, even! We even agreed on some of the same places which was exhilarating and affirming. Even though things have been hard lately, I do really feel so much love for him.

That's all I've got in me today. I didn't want to, but I still showed up and wrote something. It's not the next great American novel, but it's enough.

[theyearthirtytwo]

Day 7.

Last year, the NYT created a quiz titled Where Should You Live after releasing the article Everyone's Moving To Texas. Here's Why. When I take the quiz, I get mostly small towns in Maine upstate New York. When I messed around just a little with what was important to me (increasing the importance of snow and mountains for Michael and retirees for me - estate sales!, as well as bumping the cost up to $$$), to my utter shock and horror, it gave me Bend, Oregon. I almost fell out of my chair.

We are meeting with a couples counselor for the first time this afternoon, primarily to discuss the fact that we can not agree on a place to live. Since we have historically been able to work through every issue that has ever come up in our relationship, but are completely unable to even reasonably talk about this one, we have a sinking suspicion that our issues surrounding this topic stem from someplace deeper.

For the NYT to tell me that I would love Bend, Oregon when I have been insisting adamantly to anyone who will listen for the last two years that I do not in fact love it here but that I mostly hate it here even though I am trying not to, is such a massive betrayal that I considered canceling my subscription. The audacity.

I have this dream of fixing up a handful old places within a few hours drive or couple hours flight of each other and sort of... living between all of them, never really calling one specific residence my primary home. A collective, of sorts. When I wasn't at a particular property, I would rent them out or offer friends a place to stay. In this dream scenario the rental income would cover the carrying costs (hopefully turning a profit) and I would get the benefit of essentially free housing while also traveling and experiencing different places at different times of the year. It would also give me so many different spaces to decorate, which is such a dream.

I am not sure if it's my limiting beliefs around finances or intelligent practicality, but in order to accomplish this goal, I imagine that the majority of these homes would have to be relatively inexpensive. For this reason (and for the lack of wildfires), the east coast really appeals to me. Imagine having a place or two in Maine, one in the Finger Lakes, a couple in the Carolinas, maybe even one in Florida or the Caribbean. I'd love a studio in Charleston.

This dream feels pretty far off, which is possibly why I've never mentioned it to my partner. I'm also terrified of anyone ever crushing the dream, and I care a lot about what he thinks, so I keep the details close to my chest. I know that is the opposite of placing an order with the universe, but it's where I'm at regardless.

For now, I scroll Zillow like a mad woman anytime I need a mental escape. As I mentioned, It's been about a week since I deleted the app from my phone and while it's stayed gone (and giving me more space to be present), the internet and computers still exist so I can get my fix when I need to, just not constantly.

I'm not sure where life will take me. This idea of not having children is really changing things for me. Maybe we'll decide it's the right thing for us. We'll move to the valley and have a child or possibly two, spend most of our time raising them and some of our time working to pay for it all. Or, we might never have kids. We might have a few decades together - traveling the world, getting a cat or a dog, writing books, we could even move to Europe and buy a few different places there! The more I talk about it, the better the latter looks.

First step: counseling.