Tuesday, December 31, 2013
It's almost 2014, guys! Hurray! When you read this it will almost certainly already be 2014. And that is a good thing.
2013 wasn't my best year. It was, for the most part, a barren stretch of time in which I went to work, came home, felt sorry for myself, went to bed, woke up, you get it. And that was rough. It was easy and it was a routine, but I was so unhappy that I don't even know who I was for that six plus months or so, after I came down from the high of being in the same country as Greg again. I was so, so unhappy in Utah. What an awful part of my life. Important, and probably necessary in some things-happen-for-a-reason sort of way, but I'm so glad it's over.
The stupid part is that I don't think I would have realized how unhappy I was, or how much I wanted to leave, unless Greg hadn't told me himself that he had planned to break up with me over some major future life plans he'd casually made without me, but thought he'd let me make that decision myself. And it took being told finally, after five and a half years of him dodging any discussion of the topic, that my partner hadn't thought about marriage at all, to realize that I needed to go back to Portland. I had this completely skewed idea of what my life and my relationship were like, or what they were going to be like, and I was just waiting for something that would never happen. So I decided to leave, because I was depressed and lonely and stifled, and if he liked it then he should've put a fucking ring on it.
Thank god he didn't, though.
It's almost 2014 and I'm in an honest mood. More honest than usual, which is a lot. But I take pride in the fact that I don't sugar coat things on my blog, or anywhere for that matter. It's probably a turn-off to a lot of people, and it leaves me more vulnerable than I might otherwise be, but I don't know how to close myself off. I kind of wish I did, to be honest. Sometimes.
I'm looking forward to 2014 because it will be devoid of Utah, completely. It will be whatever I want to make of it, and that is amazing. I have two comic cons planned, I'm saving up for my next tattoo -- holy shit I can get whatever tattoos I want now, it's like I'm in charge of my own body or something omg -- and hopefully I'll do something worthwhile with my writing.
The idea of a clean slate is just the most appealing thing in the world to me right now. I'm tired of all the loss, the grief, the loneliness. I'm so much happier and more alive now than I was only a few months ago, and I'm ready for my breakup to not be a huge part of my current identity. How about I just focus on being awesome.
Fuck exes, fuck Utah, fuck self-pity. Fuck yes, 2014!
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
|Tom Hughes has cheekbones. (via)|
All right everyone! I'm plugging a thing. Get ready. It's a good thing I promise.
So as most of you know, I was sort of recently living in London, doing an MA program in Creative Writing at Brunel Uni. For my dissertation I got to work with Matt Thorne, one of the instructors of the Novel Writing program, whose book Eight Minutes Idle was being adapted to film at the time. Matt co-wrote the screenplay, and when the film was finished he invited Lucy and me to a screening in Soho. I absolutely loved it; it had a distinctly British indie feel, whatever that means to you, and was sweet and quirky without being twee. You would like it. Also it's about people who work in a call center, and you know everyone has had that one shitty call center job!
After the screening I kept sending Matt nagging emails, asking him when the film would be released, why he hadn't written a sequel yet, etc., and he said they had yet to find a distributor. Well they eventually found one, only the distributor promptly went bankrupt before the film could be released. Sad trombone.
Now the important bit! 8 Minutes Idle has now turned to Kickstarter, where they are trying to raise £20,000 to bring the film to cinemas. You can read more at the Guardian, and their Kickstarter page is here. Also check out IMDb for a plot summary and stuff.
So far they've raised quite a lot (£16,930), but I thought I would boost the signal here on my blog because it's a really great film, and I want it to get its ass to cinemas so I can force everyone I know in the UK to go and see it! I know a lot of my readers are in the US, and may not be able to see the film for some time after its hopeful release date of Valentine's Day 2014, but it's a project worth supporting! Not least of all because Matt helped me write my horrible rambling novel, and his awesome movie really deserves to be seen by the public.
There are only 9 days to go, so even if you don't contribute, boost the signal!
Also look at Tom Hughes and those cheekbones, guys. Those cheekbones have got to be worth $8 at least.
Monday, December 2, 2013
I've been so busy and so distracted lately that I forgot to grieve.
Not that I thought I was over Greg. Though I'm not sure how you define being "over" someone. Are you over him when you no longer want to fall asleep in his arms every night? Or are you over him when the vaguest thought of him doesn't make you want to cry? Maybe you're truly over him when you don't think of him at all.
I'm none of those things sometimes, and at other times I am more than one. I've found it has nothing to do with the time of day, or the music I'm listening to, or how much sleep I got the night before. It just happens, and one moment I'll be at work sipping 7-Eleven coffee, the next minute I'm holding back tears. And there are, maybe, entire days that pass where I don't have a single conscious thought of him.
Perhaps there's not a set definition for getting over someone. You just move on with your life, and as the days slip by, the memories soften and blur. They begin to hurt less. And soon enough, they hardly come at all. There is no line to cross, no moment of being over him. Just like there is no moment of falling in love, or out of it. It's a feeling that builds, is cultivated, and then fades away. For me, anyway. Even when I was hurt by the person I loved, I didn't fall out of love with him in an instant. I didn't suddenly snap out of that reality and into one where my heart wasn't his entirely.
So I guess I'll never really know exactly when I'm over Greg. There won't be a flash or a moment of clarity. I suppose I'll be minding my own business, doing my own thing, and I'll think of Greg and think -- he doesn't matter now. The feelings will be gone, and I'll realize that I haven't thought of him in weeks or maybe months, and... it will be okay. I'll be happy, and I won't mind. I'll have moved on.
Part of me wants that day to come quickly, but it's a small part. Most of me wants to hold on to these feelings and memories that are still important. That are still raw, and rough, and tender. Five and a half years with someone is a long time. Almost a fifth of my life. It meant so much to me, and it was so happy for so long that I can't bear the thought of it ever not hurting a little, to think about. I can't bear the idea that Greg won't always evoke a physical pain, however small, when I think of him.
But I can't hold onto it forever. And I guess, objectively, I don't want to.
There have been so many distractions. Moving, and new jobs, and dates, and new boys, and becoming overwhelmed with new boys, and withdrawing, and friends who need me, and friends who I need. I haven't had much of a chance to be with myself and grieve.
But here I am now, and I feel like life is finally starting to slow down. Not too much, but just enough for me to breathe. So I think about Greg more and more, because the memories don't hurt as much as they did. They squeeze but they don't pinch, so I let myself remember and cry. It feels so good to cry. It feels so, so good.
I miss him so much. I will never have anything but love for him, and fondness, but it was time to move on. So we did. And now I get to grieve.