July 25, 2015
Let’s title this “Thinly Veiled Self-Hatred” because I’m tired of masquerading as if everything is perfect and wonderful and amazing all the time.
There are hills in the distance that just taunt me with their glory. If I need nature to remind me why I believe in God, it’s those hills, and I want to climb them; I want to conquer them. I want to set foot on every inch of yellow grass, follow every trail through every forest, know these hills so intimately that I can truly call Southern Oregon my home.
I had the romantic thought to go chasing after sunrise photos this morning, running a mile-and-a-half to the top of the universe and facing east just when the moment was right.
But I don’t have the lung capacity for that. And as a small woman, I cannot make this journey alone. Not cannot; should not. “Should” is a bad word on my tongue. It’d be dangerous for me to entertain my spontaneity. I’m too stupid to know how to fight a bear in the forest or a man with a pocketknife. I’m stupid to humor the idea; I’m better off staying at home.
I lapse into fantasy too often; probably a product of my brain not being competent enough to live anywhere above the land of stupidity. Fake it ‘til you make it and that’s as good as it’s going to get. Sometimes I think about the boy I hope to marry, and I put a real name to a real face for the sake of comforting myself while I slip into delusion. In the real world, I want to go see this boy, but he lives so far away. I’d drive down the ocean for him, but the roads get too windy on the edges of cliffs. I don’t have the money to spend on hotels. Could I sleep in a hotel room by myself, anyway? With rusty air conditioners that could catch on fire and running toilets with leaky pipes? I don’t even know how to pump my own gas.
There’s an idyllic sentiment that people in their twenties “should” up and travel before they lose the opportunity to family and career. But I’m held in place by paralysis. God, do I want to be that person who camps out on a blanket under the Milky Way, listening to the sounds of the waves and understanding that I’m only a tiny piece of the universe.
But I can’t.
And you don’t understand, but I can’t.
Genuinely.
No lies.
I’m alone in my room at 5:33 a.m. thinking about how I’ll never escape my self-imposed prison, but at least it’s a sensible price and I don’t mind the setting too much.
Not like I could change my mind anyhow.
But don’t worry. I’ll never forget. Because people laugh when I get cute and flustered but I snuck away twice to cry yesterday because I know I’m never going anywhere. I’m not freaking out and I don’t have a bad attitude. I need a prescription or someone to talk to.
But those solutions are up on hilltops miles away from my front porch.










