Here’s the next piece of writing for you, babe. I created a tumblr so that I could keep my character’s stuff together. Meet Viveca Leigh Gideon, a character I’ve created for World of Warcraft (retail) on Wyrmrest Accord.
If such things as crystal balls that conveyed the past existed, and a person of wilful mind could gaze into the abyss within and view a person’s existence, then one could deduce that Viveca Leigh Gideon lead an extraordinarily dull yet fortunate childhood. Born in April some twenty or so years ago, a snow white babe if there ever was one made two proud parents of Rose and Jachaery Arterton. Since her conception, the pair had found nothing but luck in their lives. During pregnancy, Rose hardly fell ill, and though her husband insisted on bed rest in the end, it’s said that she could walk about, work the gardens, and keep the kitchen going without much fuss. There were no unusual complications during the birth of Viveca, their one and only daughter, and she took to the breast without any inconveniences. The babe was hardly ever sick, and she was without collick. She slept through the night, and grew to each upon routine. The sound of her father’s laugh was hardly matched by the song of her mother, and both aided in keeping the child mostly happy throughout the formative years of her life.
Though they never had enough to dress of value or buy frivolous things, Viveca’s parents did well to be certain she wanted for nothing. The thing was, though, that Viveca hardly seemed to want much more than they had. From her mother, she learned to garden, learned the plants and their uses. From her father, she learned to fight. He refused to teach her with a blade, but unarmed, she could get in a few punches before fleeing for her life if the situation rose for it. Growing up, she knew she would take over the apothecary of her mother’s creation and Viveca accepted this with hardly any resistance.
For years, the Artertons appeared untouched by time, fame, or wealth. Kingdoms fells, Theramore Isle grew stronger, and the Kul Tiras were proud members of the Alliance still. The first mark of tragedy to fall upon the happy trio was the assumed loss of her father, one of many who sailed in the fleets for the Alliance under the Kul Tiras banner. Though Viveca, in a morbid fashion, had been prepared for the potential loss of her father ever since she truly understood his line of work and the risks involved, Rose Arterton took this news hard. She was never quite the same.
This left Viveca to man the apothecary, to seek the sales. She had to use the soil herself, will the plants to join her in keeping up the family’s money, cook and clean in a house meant for three, and into growing from a young girl into a woman, she had to keep up her guard for would-be suitors. She could not bare the thought of leaving her mother behind, and there would be no guarantees she could get her to join her wherever she went. It would just be best for all involved if Viveca let that part of her life slide by.
However, even for the luckiest of us, life has a funny way of forcing a person along when they become too stagnant.
The man she came to know as Arrick Gideon entered her life in the same way many greet Theramore Isle, a boat. Though he never gave her a clear answer on why he happened to be there that day, the moment they met, he insisted he never wanted to leave without her. The prospect of her daughter getting married seemed, for a short time, to heal Rose Arterton’s grief. Infatuated with the pair almost as much as they had become infatuated with each other, none were surprised by the announcement of their engagement.
This, though a joyous occasion altogether, was the first major decision Viveca would make for herself.
When Rose claimed she would keep up the apothecary there, Viveca left her stubborn mother in Theramore and sailed back to the Eastern Kingdoms with Arrick. Across the sea that took her father, Mrs. Viveca Leigh Gideon was eager and anxious to take on the new responsibilities of being someone’s wife in a land she couldn’t remember ever having seen before, in a family she’d never yet met.
With luck ever on her side, any tension or ill-will addressed to the woman who would steal the heart of Arrick Gideon while he was away from his rather close family was cast aside as soon as they met her. Together with her husband and the land his family owned in the Redridge Mountains, the life the newlyweds led was busy, but not unusual. Arrick, as it turned out, was an explorer who’d dreamed of reaching the unknown areas of Kalimdor as soon as travel there was safe and resources readily available. He was not so much interested in discovering new land as he was procuring rare items and artifacts, learning rich history, and studying the affects of the ancestors on the likes of Azeroth. Much like the relationship with her father, Viveca’s love for Arrick only solidified further when he was away and burst with enthusiasm when he returned.
In the months that he was gone, Viveca grew close to the soil of their land and began to work it once more. As soon as she’d sprouted this idea and grown comfortable with the life she now had… Once again, life forced a hand.
Rumors of Theramore’s destruction came swiftly to her hears in waves of people having found out sooner than later, and even aftermore. Well wishes and condolences were sent to Viveca on behalf of her mother’s death counted among the others, and worry grew in the pit of her stomach for the sake of Arrick’s life.
Fortunately for the Gideons, Arrick appeared to be no where near the catastrophes that took place during and just after Theramore’s demise. He returned home the following winter just in time for Winter’s Veil, and since the recent events and then the cataclysm that shook the world, the lovers decided home may be the best place for him to be until stability was a part of their every day life again.
And so the garden and apothecary they grew only flourished in Lakeshire, where Viveca set up post once a week and made decent enough profit to continue living. Over the years, Arrick’s own parents and extended family began to perish. Some to the war, some to the events of the world, some to taking risks beyond their expertise. Yet, Arrick remained alive and for Viveca, this was all she could ask for.
Enter in the most recent invasions of the Burning Legion and you have yourself the backdrop for another unfortunate event in the otherwise extraordinarily lucky life of Viveca Leigh Gideon.
The latest invasions from the Burning Legion last season came, conquered, and destroyed thousands upon thousands of lives in the blink of an eye. One moment, time stood still and while life wasn’t absolutely perfect, it wasn’t a tragedy for just one fucking minute on Azeroth.
But, like all good things, Arick’s life came to an end before Viveca’s eyes.
“Travel to Westfall, he says,” Viveca teased her husband from behind the caravan. The pair were on horseback riding alongside a cousin’s caravan as they took to Westfall in hopes of taming land that was otherwise recognized as untameable. Jokes had been made about the poor condition of Westfall’s soil, and even further serious comments had been made about how this had directly affected the hunger strike in the countryside. Surrounding the pair and the caravan of luggage were a dozen or so volunteers to guard them, though all would be paid if Arrick had any say in the matter. Beggars with haunted faced and swollen eyes looked up on them as they passed, and the bravest of these even bothered to come closer with anger. They never made it far.
“It’ll be fun, he says,” she continued to tease him, and only when he looked over his shoulder at her and tossed the blonde mane of his did she smirk up and blow him a kiss with her gloved palm.
“Come now, country living has done you wonders. You went from some sea urchin to a right farm girl in no time.”
“I can hardly claim our garden a farm,” Viveca laughed up at him with mirth, shaking her head. “And there’s a difference, darling. This place has.. little hope. It would take a miracle, more than that to get it back on it’s feet.”
“It’s their choice where my cousin decides to start and waste away his inheritance. We aim to serve our family, remember?” His horse, on command, lingered back a bit to walk in stride with her mare.
“Yes, I remember,” she confirmed.
“If it bothers you that much, we’ll see to it that we return home swiftly,” He reached for her hand with his, and between the pair of horses, they lifted their arms and locked digits. “Maybe,” he added with a wink, “we’ll pick up a few animals on the way. Make it a real farm, eh?”
“And where are you going to keep a few extra farm animals?” The dark haired woman’s laugh almost grew to a pitch that would disturb the evening of sleeping homeless and helpless people, and thus, her husband brought a finger to his lips to remind her.
“We’ve got an extra room in the upstairs, don’t we?” He lifted a brow at her, his voice lower still.
“You’re going to keep chickens and a mule upstairs in the spare bedr–” She began, but realization set in on her hard and fast. Her eyes went wide with admiration and her heart threatened to burst louder than their voices could ever have been. “You don’t mean?”
“I do,” He nodded to her.
It had been a point of conversation at once point, certainly, but between the pair it had been decided the world simply wasn’t worth raising a young boy or girl in until it was a bit more stable, safer. They were waiting, though exactly what for, Viveca had never known.
“And you think now is the proper time?” Viveca questioned, her heart in her throat with all her hopes and dreams.
“I’ve been doing some thinking,” the tone of his voice grew firm, serious. The blonde brows that knitted on his face were a telling sign that he’d already made the decision and wouldn’t be swayed. “There’s no point waiting for a world that will never be perfect. Our world wasn’t perfect when we were born, you know.”
“Oh, Arrick,” She breathed, straining to keep her voice quiet despite how loud she’d wanted to shriek with delight. “I agree! I mean to say, we should! When we get back, then?”
It was one of those moments where the light in her eyes threatened to stay there forever, daring the world to throw whatever it could at them for she would never falter in her faith.
The world listened, or, someone from another world did. The same sky that caused her eyes to glitter with joy grew dark, disturbed and outlined in green. Funnels from deep clouds above sprung from the heavens and pulsed into the ground all around them as demons of all shape and size began to walk through various portals all about the countryside.
“Go! Go with her, now! Eight of you go, and take her back!” Arrick wasted no time with the orders, and Viveca both loved and hated him for it.
In protest, despite the fear that prickled her spine, she began to slide off of her horse and run towards him in defiance. His horse led a charge to speed up to the caravan and attempt to turn it around, to take it to safety where there was none. As her feet hovered above the ground, a hand swooped in and gripped her by the waist, pulling her up into the air and pinning her to their chest. Another arm grabbed at her flailing legs, shouting at her of all the times to be stubborn, this was a time to flee. “He’ll be joining us. He’ll be right there. He’s going to meet us in Goldshire. Let’s go, m’lady!”
No one, not even Viveca could convince herself that anyone would be there to reclaim her from Goldshire. This last memory with her husband would be all she had left of him in Redridge.
I want flatlands
I never cared about money and all its friends
I want flatlands
I want flatlands
I don’t want precious stones
I never cared about anything you’ve ever owned
I want flatlands
I want simplicity
I need your arms wrapped hard around me
I want open plains and scattered trees
I want flower fields
I want salty seas
I want flatlands soft and steady breeze
bringing scents of lined-up orchard trees
dripping heavy with pears and dancing leaves
I want flatlands
will you go there with me
when it’s said in the dark and you know it’s always there
when it’s dead in our heart but your mind is unafraid
when it’s said in the dark and you know it’s never coming back
when it’s there in your heart in your mind you set it free
Sorry I’ve been scarce. A lot has happened, and I’m thankful for our phone calls as of late to keep me from drowning. It’s all good things, and eventually, even better things. In the mean while, I’ve still been writing, and in addition to that, my fellow-author-to-be cousin and I have created a website called WHAT THE PROMPT? in order to spark out writing style. For me, it’s great. I get to create on an outlet that is not my main novel, but I don’t have to stand around for hours for roleplay chances – which used to be my old outlet. Anyway, check it out. Love you, and here’s my first response to the very first prompt:
“Let’s pretend the year is currently 1995, and you’re still the current age you are now. You’ve fallen asleep, and you didn’t wake up until 20 years later. It’s now 2015. You’ve missed everything in your 20-year-slumber. Write what happens next.”
There are three certain ways to wake up from a good nap. The first one is waking up with an acute awareness, alert as if someone just blew a bugle to remind you your work shift started twenty minutes ago and you missed the alarm. The second is not as panicked. It’s relaxed, but not to the point that you feel you can’t manage to move a limb. You twist as you pop this joint and stretch that muscle. A smile creeps on your lips, a kiss from the sun peeking through your window shades. It’s time to get up, but take your time. Today is a gift.
The third way is so crippling that it’s almost as if you never fell asleep at all. You wake up with more exhaustion tugging at your shoulders. Your eyelids protest the signals from your brain, concerned that you haven’t opened them yet to find that, in fact, your nap lasted much longer than it needed to, and it wasn’t for the better.
This time is the third, and it wasn’t hours late that I woke up.
After what feels like five minutes, i split the shade over my eyes and find myself in the closet I had fallen asleep in. For some reason, I cannot remember why it was that I went to the closet in the first place, or why I had decided it’s floor would be any aid to fatigue I must have felt; the worsened condition I felt now.
I lift my hand, a finger digging at the crust that formed in the corners of my eyelids. Out of habit, I lick the tip of my index finger and begin rubbing underneath my eyes, just in case mascara has made a smudgy home there as it’s want to do. My eyes begin to focus and I can see wrinkles on the back of my hands that weren’t there before. Good lord, I’ve become my mother – not over night – but in a matter of a nap.
I push this thought from my head and rise from the ground on wobbly knees and uneasy ankles, parts of my body that aren’t sure if they can bear the weight of the rest of me so quickly after their rest. My hand clutches the pole that holds empty hangers, all white. There are no clothes on them, nor on the floor where I am certain to keep my dirty laundry despite the overpriced woven basket hamper from Home Goods. The floor beneath my bare toes feels damp, as if recently shampooed. How hadn’t I noticed that before?
I open the door slowly, disgruntled as the light showers me from the darkness of the small, dark room. There are no blinds, no curtains. There is no furniture in what should be my well-worn bedroom. The walls are no longer adorned by painted sunflowers on a dull green backdrop from Lowes. My eyes scan the corner for the stain of coffee that fell from my bed years ago and wasn’t retrieved until last month, when I remembered it had happened at all. The carpet? It was the same color, the same texture, but the stain was gone.
I didn’t realize I had been holding my breath until I’d opened three more doors: my bathroom, the hallway, and the room to my littlest sister. All remarkably cleaned and remodeled. All notably… empty.
Adrenaline met with the panic that filled my throat, disabling my subconscious ability to breathe. Where had everyone gone? My lungs pumped with oxygen at such a quick rate, I forgot to exhale. I was a balloon, expanding until my head began to ring dizzy. I opened my mouth to call out but only a whisper escaped, “Is anyone there?”
No reply.
I fought the urge to buckle at the knees, to cry out. There was an explanation for this, there had to be. Seek it out. Keep your shit together. It’s just a puzzle. More than likely, a dream. With this newfound determination, I descended the stairs. The banister had been replaced and what had once been carpet covering were now fresh planks of wood stained in a red color that reminded me of bitter wine. More empty rooms. The kitchen to my right was hardly recognizable and had been walled up where an open bar once stood. I don’t bother searching any more rooms on my way to the front door. My assumption is that they are all as empty as I felt. The front door is locked from the inside, and I struggle to pull the deadbolt in the other direction before I hear a successful ‘click’.
I pull the door towards me and open Pandora’s box.
On the one hand, I really want to focus very much on my book this year. I want to begin writing /it/. Researching /it/. I don’t want to just do my little writing exercises. I want to make progress! Go, go, go!
On the other hand, I really really really want to lose 50 lbs. Just fifty. That’s all I want. But the extra time I would find to use to write, I could be using to work out and plan my meals and all of the B.S. it takes to lose weight.
I cannot do both and still breathe because you know me. Narrow-sighted and driven, but only on ONE thing at a time.
What do I dooooo?!
–Miranda
Response to this like a Dear Abbey! Go, go, go! (Inari, if you’re reading this, you can respond too! your advice is stellar!)
It’s a total bitch to have forgotten the past. My entire childhood is scattered in bits and pieces that I attempt every now and again to shove in to place. Sometimes, I get so frustrated that it’s like when you’re at the end of the 1000 piece puzzle and all you really desire in the entire world at that moment is to finish the damn thing, so you almost try to force the holes to be perfect fits for each appendage of the cardboard cut out pieces.
I’ve done that a lot in my life, shoving all of the pieces where I think they need to fit because all I’ve cared about was completing the puzzle and ending the game. It’s the most frustrating feeling when you squint your eyes and try to imagine how the image will look when everything is finally in it’s place, but life happens and the next thing you know, your son has knocked a few pieces out of place and on the floor and then your cat eats the corner piece as if you hadn’t just fed it an entire oversized bowl of Friskies. Thanks a lot, Lily.
However, has anyone ever stopped to wonder to themselves, What the hell am I even going to do with the thing once I’ve finished it? Do I become one of those people who glues it together and mounts it on the wall like some great achievement because buying a twenty dollar puzzle of Thomas Kenkade’s artwork was cheaper than buying a replica to frame and hang over the fireplace like the fancy folk? Or, do you scatter it all over again to see if you can beat your last time. Seventeen days: personal best!
If I continue to use the metaphor of a puzzle to explain how I continuously, royally fuck up my life time and time again, then I guess I’m between hanging everything that I’ve accomplished on facebook to show people I’m not some worthless, perfectly symmetrical piece in Jesus and Satan’s chess match and I actually have my shit together… Or, you know, taking it in strides that once I finish this particular thing, there will just be another one to pick up right after. Dealing with life’s punches again and again to beat my last personal best score?
Where do I even start? Why does my brain continue to ask all of the hard questions at night? To keep me up well past the time I’d like to call ‘my bed time’, which really it’s about two to three hours past the ‘bed time’ I had originally scheduled. They – you know, doctors, therapists, counselors – say that you should record these thoughts, these feelings. It will make it feel better, and it may even open up some clarity to… to what? What’s wrong with me, doc? Can’t you just prescribe me some drug and make it all better? What’s that, this thing is only in the beginning stages of being a diagnosis? You need to see me more? You need to discover drugs that will actually affect it other than substituting it with bipolar medication in hopes that it assists?
I suppose I will write this in the same way that the puzzle pieces (re: memories) come to me. Maybe we’ll both learn something.
So, allow me to apologize and thank you at the same time, my darling Kettle.
I apologize, because I have been rotten the past few months. I’ve been hurting in my own way, and that made me more bitter than I care to admit – but will anyway because admitting my feelings is more healthy than pretending they didn’t happen at all. I sincerely thought this would be my new life, this not caring, being sassy, and bitter thing.
But, it was not meant to be. And, while I was doing it all, and writing out in my darkest moments, I truly appreciate you for responding with haste, with compassion, and with humor. You and I speak on a level that is secret to our own nature, our own way. It’s a language people can see and hear and understand, but they may not fully comprehend the depth. You reached me. And I thank you so much for it. I’m surprised you didn’t just:
I mean, I would have taken it.
Anyhow, let’s move on to the new things.
I thought up a few new ideas for a book. Two are in this world. They’re fiction, but it’s like, modern day. 2014. You know. Another is in another world, made up, very steampunk meets victorian.
I moved in to my new apartment. Tomorrow, my father moves out of his house and stops sleeping at my apartment – and Elijah and I will be completely and totally alone. I love my father, and this isn’t a jest at him or the old, “I’m so glad to kick my parents out” joke. I am seriously thankful for the opportunity to be in my own home. My own. Just me (and Elijah). And more so, that I can magically afford it somehow, like a grown ass responsible and independent woman that don’t need no man. Huzzah.
I’m also kind of thankful that Dad’s gone because I could not get the man to cook healthy. I mean, come on. I am trying to lose weight. Stop making potato-cheese-bacon melt casserole, jeeze.
I also no longer have to deal with toll roads. Hallelujah. It takes me 20 minutes to get to work, even from Dallas, because every time I drive the highway is against traffic rather than with, and thus I don’t have roadblocks. I’m sure they will periodically happen. I’m not daft, but it’s a much better situation.
Oh, by the way, I am in the center of everything. I love the city, and have always wanted to live here. I’ve lived in suburbs, but this is my first in the actual city where sirens are a daily occurrence sort of deal. I love it. There’s 3 malls around the corner, a million bookstores on my block and my walmart is two stories tall. (Three stories with the Sams Club attached. Oh yeah.)
I read an article the other day about people who want to travel to go on their ‘soul-searching’ journey – and the author was like, “Quit coming to my country looking for your peace. We are not for you tourists pleasure. We do not magically fix you. You fix you. You will not be ‘fixed’ unless our mind and heart and soul are in the right frame. If you have to come here to ‘get away’, fine, but do not assume we are miracle workers. You can do this at home. Just find a place inside to sit and ‘get away’ and find yourself. It’s frightening, but cheaper!”
My apartment has become this. Granted, I pay for it monthly, but I’m on my own. My own rules. My own decisions. My own life. I am so thankful.
I know that this may be backwards, but after many disagreements and arguments with my cousin who is very devout in Christian faith, I have decided to take the label off of my faith. I believe there is a God. I believe whatever this God is is fair and just and lovely and fascinating and has to exist because this world, nay, universe is too much for chance. I believe in paying respects. I believe in thanking each part and piece of nature and our natural world for it’s existence. For thanking calm as it washes over me. For thanking worry as it reminds me that I care about something so much to be anxious over it. But I will no longer call myself of Christian faith. It was the hardest decision I’ve made recently, and one that broke me down to tears. It’s a long story, but it has been brought to my attention that my way of life was hardly anything to do with Christianity, and if that is the case, then fuck it.
I’ll do good and be a good person because I am a good person.
I love you so much. I may write smaller pieces here and there because there’s more I want to write to you but have momentarily forgotten. I love you. I love you. I love ou.
I appreciate you. I see you. Thank you.
–Miranda
P.S. I got a text from my mom as I was closing this and my mom announces, “No breast cancer!! Just cysts!” Yeeeeehaw!
I am posting this because it is one of those things that I feel is highly relatable to others in our positions as parents, moms, or anyone who gets weighed down by how big the world can feel when we let our minds run away without us. This story was written for my creative writing class by yours truly.
Enjoy.
With the best of intentions, I crawl in to bed at precisely 8:46 in the evening. This is after I have brushed my teeth, gone to the bathroom, taken a shower, cleansed my face from the day, and taken a glass of water with me to the bedroom. I am quite certain that if I get in to bed at 8:46 in the evening, I will have estimated the correct amount of time to fall asleep by 9:00PM.
I want to fall asleep by 9:00PM because I have set out an endeavor to awake by my alarm clock at 7:00AM. This grants me an allowance of ten hours in which I may rest which is honestly more than enough. In all likelihood I will wake up earlier than that if I am truly to fall asleep by 9:00PM.
However, as insomnia would have it, by 9:13PM my heart is racing as the ideas gallop across my brain and in to words. I hear my voice reading a bedtime story to me. I’m intrigued and delighted so much that I surrender any attempts to fall asleep and spring from the bed. There will be no sleep until this idea is placed on a memo and tucked away for when I have more time.
I don’t get back into bed until 10:57PM. By now, I know that if I can force myself into slumber, I will not even get eight hours of sleep, which is commonly known as the correct amount of sleep required for good health. If I don’t have good health, then I am not going to be very good at anything I have to do tomorrow. So, I really need to fall asleep. Like, now.
I sigh and open one eye to sneak the time reading on my alarm clock. Somehow, my alarm clock has malfunctioned. It now reads 11:21PM. How can this be? Did I doze off into a nap? I don’t feel like I did, but then again, it could have been one of those cat naps where time jolts forward and you feel energized and ready for the day. The only problem is that I don’t want to feel ready for the day. I want to feel exhausted. Maybe I’ve just been thinking too long and time trickled with each rabbit hole I jump through. I look at the clock again and realize I’ve lost another twenty minutes.
At this rate, I am not going to get a healthy amount of sleep. This means I won’t want to wake up at 7:00AM. If I don’t get up at 7:00AM, then I am not going to want to work out. If I don’t work out, then I am not going to lose weight and build muscles and boost my metabolism and get more endorphins. If I don’t get all of that, I will fall into a rut of exhaustion and depression first thing when I wake up.
I check the clock again. I’ve lost an hour thinking about all the weight I need to lose and in all the places I wish I could thin out. My hips. My thighs. My stomach. My arms.
Now, I am beginning to ponder if it will be worth it to go to class in the morning at all. Perhaps, I should sacrifice class and regrettably my grade for what really matters in life: my job. My job is needed to make money. I need money to take care of my son, my husband, and my obsession with organic food which is ridiculously over priced. But wait, I don’t want to forget school or I’ll have wasted all this time working so hard to stick with it and get good grades. I’ll have wasted every morning I didn’t sleep in when I desperately wanted to, but I can’t fall asleep and it’s — I sneak another look at the clock — already 2:00AM.
I might as well call in to work. I can stay home and keep my son in my arms all day. We can have an impromptu Mother-Son date at the park. We have look like all of those ads about having a family where everyone is smiling and laughing at the funniest thing in the world.
Wait, how am I going to do that? My son is three years old. My son is testing his boundaries every fifteen minutes and driving me up the wall. If I don’t get any sleep, my son will have to face off with my grumpy attitude and then I’ll be the worst mother in the world because I can’t fall asleep to take care of my son.
I can’t fall asleep for my son. I can’t fall asleep for my job. I can’t fall asleep for my school work and classes. I can’t fall asleep for my happiness. I can’t fall asleep.
It’s 3:00AM and I start to feel very small against this mountain of regret for things not yet to pass. The future seems to miserable and the past only proves the pattern waiting for me. If I am destined to fail, why bother trying at all?
I’ve started to cry about not being able to get to sleep and how it’s going to ruin my life at 3:13AM. I give in to the miserable acceptance that I will never get my life together on a schedule that so many other people seem to run the pace of. I begin to curl into a ball beneath the covers when the door cracks open to my bedroom.
In comes my husband with a blanket bundle in his arms. My son peaks out from beneath the blankets with sleepy eyes and mumbles, “Hi Mama.” My thoughts stop. My heart races in their place.
“Someone couldn’t get to sleep,” My husband explains of our son. I thought he had spoken of me. He brings the bundle to my side of the bed and I wrap my arms around his shoulders. He is warm and comforting. My husband slips into bed on the other side, wrapping his arms around me.
In a quick moment, I hear my son begin to snore. His eyes are closed tight. I smile and new thoughts swim in a calm pool of my mind. I am the key to my son getting any sleep tonight. I am the comfort my husband comes home from work to. My arms are the strongest thing in existence because they hold my whole world in their hands.
If I don’t wake tomorrow at 7:00AM, then I will sleep with my son beside me. My husband will wake up an hour or so later, and I will awaken because the bed springs back up without his weight. I will have enough time to shower and drive to class. I will feel so good about getting out of class that I will smile at work today. My smile could be the comfort someone else needs. It most definitely will be the comfort my son reaches for when I return home for the day, and when I get in to bed tomorrow night at 8:46PM, the knowledge that I can reflect the world that I hold in my arms tonight will prepare me for a brighter morning.
I don’t know what time it was when I finally fell asleep, but I do know in whose arms I was in and whose arms were in mine. This is no catastrophe.
I’m am so awful about them. It’s probably the perfectionist / completionist whore in me that feels utter failure when something isn’t done 100%, but that’s how I feel every year when I don’t do something. Example:
Miranda wants to drink NO SODAS. Miranda lasts 31 days and drinks a soda. Miranda doesn’t try harder the next day, because she’s already fucked up and therefor is not perfect, why bother.
This is bad, and I know it’s bad. It’s also probably the reason I haven’t lost weight yet. “I worked out so hard the other day, and here I am eating a Whataburger!… LOLNOPE ON THE WEIGHTLOSS THING.”
But, for you my dear, I will make a list because it’s good to have goals and strive for something, and with your help, even when I inevitably fail sometimes, you can help remind me that I can keep going without the perfection and the world will, believe it or not, still turn.
Miranda’s New Year Resolutions
Apologize only when I regret. This one if a big deal to me because, as you know Catie, up until a few months ago I would apologize for every little thing. Bumping someone’s shoulder on pure accident, not having a clean house when friends would come over despite the fact that I have no time and a child to raise, being too poor to afford things like ‘going out every night’, or for hurting someone’s feelings unintentionally because they took what I said or wrote the completely wrong direction in which it was meant and didn’t give me the benefit of the doubt. Yeah, fuck that. No more. I spent a month with a counselor this past semester at school and she suggested that to help with all the guilt I felt all the time that made me not want to be in this world, I should realize what it is I feel guilt for and why. And if it was for dumb things like the examples above, then I shouldn’t let it make me feel guilty. Instead, I should base every apology I want to make on this sound question: “Do I regret not cleaning the house instead of playing with my son? Do I regret having no money instead of being home to raise my child and use more time to focus on school? Do I regret saying or writing something because someone’s head is too far up their own ass to realize what I’ve been writing? No? Okay, no apology needed.” Works for me.
Be positive. I know my last paragraph seemed a little catty. Maybe it was. I’ve gone from depressed, innocent, crying, pathetic Miranda and turned in to confident, empowered, motivated Miranda… with a side of catty when people try to pull the old shit on me (and took advantage of how compassionate I really am when I care.) You know the types and people. Anyhow, I want to make sure my catty doesn’t become a side-effect and hurt people more than it does make them laugh. And more importantly, I need to remember that everything is in perspective, and with a positive one, I can get more shit done.
No more sodas. God, I will miss Dr. Pepper. I should make ONE exception rule: On Holidays, I can have up to two. TWO. God, they are so bad for you, though.
No more fast food. I would like to note that this does not include healthier places like Panera Bread in which I get the healthiest, tastiest, over-priced shit. But it is the best.
Plan ahead on school work. Last semester, in almost every class, I was given my assignments ahead of time on a schedule. I had ample opportunities to get my things done way before the end of term, and not taking advantage of this really hurt my grades in some classes. This semester, I am taking 14 hours. This includes an online course (Art Appreciation. Easy enough.), a physical education course (Yoga. Yay! Forced Physical Health!), a language course (More Spanish. All the time.), a history course (God, help me), and a creative writing class. The latter three are going to be heavy in things to learn, and I really don’t have time or money to slack off. It’s go time. Take advantage of all my opportunities school-related, go go go!
Write for 30 minutes, every day. Whether it’s this blog, a diary, role play, a short story.. Anything to keep my mind going and keep up the pace I want to set to write that next great American piece of literature!
Work out. I’m really bad that this one. I really am. When I am working out, I am like ‘fuck yeah this feels great’. Before the work out, I am like ‘what excuse can I come up with to keep me from having to spend an hour at the gym.’ I don’t know why. I need to reroute my brain’s pattern of thinking on this one, but I truly don’t know how to yet. So, I’m going to put work out, because it sounds better than ‘lose X lbs’ when I can’t even focus on the working out part just yet. Maybe in June, I can give you a number. For now, I just want to make working out a routine thing. With Yoga being every Tuesday and Thursday at 4:30, and classes (near my gym) every M-Th, I am hoping I can stop by the gym on the way home every day (4 days of 7, if not also on weekends) and do some work. That is, also while keeping my homework under check.
Flesh out one of the many ideas I have for a book, and write a plot line. You know me. I have a million ideas, and they are all half-assed and never finished. I need to pick one and just run with it. Run it in to the ground. Then I need to write it out as much as I can. Then I need to put it away for 3 months and come back to it with a clear head and write some more, and edit. I also need to figure out how to even get published. Hmm.
God, God, God. If anything, the biggest thing that happened to me last year was finally breaking the barrier where I wanted so bad to believe in God, but he seemed so much like a fairy tale that I couldn’t. When I finally broke that barrier.. It’s magical. To save you guys who may not give a damn about religion, or Christians, some time, I will just tell you that… it’s a big deal. And I’d love to get more involved with Him and our relationship because the more I do, the better things seem to get for me and mine.
Complete at least two of these resolutions. It doesn’t count if I complete one, and then this one is the second and therefor 2/10 are done. That’s cheating.
Hope you liked my resolutions, Catie. Tried just for you.
Hey! It would be super awesome if you could explain Juicing to me sometime. I don’t even know what it is, but people won’t shut up about it. Is it good? Bad? Weight loss related? I don’t speak Japanese.
Just do a nutrition post in general. Or both. Give it all to me, now!
Miranda
P.S. After your last post, my head is the size of Jupiter’s moon, Miranda. Thank you.
Passing Notes & Conversations 