Okay, it’s time for me to get real. What is the point of having an online journal if you can’t spill your innermost feelings, right?

I am miserable. I really am. I’m so dismally depressed most days, that I try anything and everything I can to keep my mind off of how ripped from my life I feel. Anything to fill the void. I think it’s mostly because I have NOTHING to do the majority of the day. I get up, do pilates, shower. Take the dog for a walk, have lunch. Play Age of Empires for hours on end. I eat. I take naps. I can’t wait for my new job to start so I can get the F*%K out of the house and do something.

Because of course when you have a lot of time on your hands with nothing to do, you think. At least that is what I do. And the only things I tend to think about it how much I miss Cincinnati. How I miss the familiarity of it. Of driving through town and knowing that in a few hours, I’d be meeting Chuck and Charlie at Mary’s. I miss my friends. I don’t know anyone here. My neighbor Amy is very nice, and when I see her we usually stop and chat for 20 minutes or so. She’s very easy to talk to, and she has a dog, too, so it’s easy to begin talking about stuff with her.

I think it’s easy for Rob. He is meeting new people everyday at school. And while I’m happy and excited for him, I can’t shake the loneliness I feel. And I’m not the type to go down to the local coffee shop and just sit down with a complete stranger and strike up a conversation.

I miss the ease of having someone to talk to. Most times, I don’t want to tell Rob how I’m feeling because he’ll try to fix it, which really pisses me off. I understand that men feel they need to fix things- it’s that whole hunter/gatherer mentality from thousands of years ago. They carry around their little toolbox to try and remedy anything they can. And all I really need is someone to just listen to me, with no interruptions about how he would do things if he were in my position.

What is this fear of being emotionally intimate with a man? Do all women feel that way, or is it just me? I know why I feel that way. Let’s face it, seeing a therapist every other week was really about me figuring out why I don’t feel present in my own life. I wish I could be that way with men. Especially Rob. But it’s that whole abandonment matter. If I let myself be close to someone, they’ll just leave. And inside, I know this one won’t. But maybe it’s because I don’t want to hear what he’ll say. I want it to be my way. On my terms. Well, I’ve learned it just doesn’t work that way. It never has or will. Linda (my therapist) always said the only thing we can control is our reactions and responses to what life hands us. Right now, I feel like I’m doing a pretty shitty job.

It makes me think of so many things. It makes me ponder what it is I really want to do in my life. What is it that is going to make me feel 100%? What will make me whole? I’ve always wanted to perform. I’ve always wanted to direct. I still want to publish those two plays I’ve written that are getting dusty on the shelf, plus a pile of other fiction I’ve been working on for years and years. I want to be a photographer. I want to write and direct my own film. I want to get my masters in theatre. I want to learn to play the guitar. And which one of these will I ultimately do? Shit, I’d love to do all of them. But where do I start?

And this bog I’m in makes me think of regrets. I have so many. I know we all do. But when I was young, I thought to myself that I would live my life without them. I saw Dead Poets Society too many times. Or read A Separate Peace way too much as a teenager. Carpe Diem. Didn’t that mean to live your life with excitement and verve and don’t ever compromise your ideals for anyone or anything? Christ, I should’ve gone parasailing at South Padre Island at age 15 when I went on vacation with my Dad. I should’ve walked outside when Eric Heaton gestured for me to, outside of a bar in the heat of summer, 1999. I hate to think of what I missed out on because I was dating someone else who ultimately shit all over me. I should’ve kissed Dave. And Mike. And Ryan. I should’ve told countless boys how I really felt about them in the last 12 years or so without wanting anything in return, except the gratification of actually doing it. I should’ve submitted all the photos or poems or short stories to the innumerable calls for entry over the years.

But you know what? I makes me also realize the things I am in control of. How I’m finally going to write that letter to my mother and thank her for all the wonderful memories I have of childhood, even if it was really f’ed up.
How I waited six long years to perform, only to realize how much more amazing it felt because I had six years of life experience to make me feel like a woman onstage, no longer a girl.
That I take great photographs.
That I’m going to pursue every passion I possibly can. Even if I’m 76 and want to learn to jig. I’ll do it.
That I’m a great voice teacher. That I make a difference. That kids really look up to me.
That it’s okay to tell Eric, or Dave, or Mike, or Ryan that I really wanted to. Even now. You know why? Because it’s never too late....