the state of things

Hope becomes irrelevant in the face of absolute certainty” Devon

Hope is a tricky thing. It’s funny – when someone tells you something and you respond with “I hope so” in a way, you’re expressing a lack of faith that it will actually happen. Hope is not what I have right now. we laugh and go back and forth between hope and knowing, discussing our titles and coming up with the acronym “stbw” as passing, for now, as to not steal thunder from a bride with a wedding now less than two months ago. And five months lingers right around the corner (tomorrow) and Devon’s laundry is in a neat little stack in my closet – we had an adventure over the weekend for hanging our first pictures in our new place, and I find traces of her everywhere, like searching for hidden objects throughout the house. I wouldn’t call this hope. And to respond to something sweet, something laced with promises that are never spoken but rather discerned beneath the actual words, or looks or thoughts that fly between eyes with ” I hope so” seems to diminish the knowledge of what is. Devon now refers to her other apartment as an over sized closet – its where she’s keeping a few of her things and paying rent until November/December. Otherwise she will be with me. Its good to still have our own space in the transitional periods – to have days on our own, to relax to do our own thing.

I’ve been absent from OD for awhile with very little in the way of writing for a few reasons. You wouldn’t think with all the happiness and activity swirling around my head in the past few weeks that I could be in a slump, but I am of sorts. It’s work related, for the most part, with a few tidbits of old demons creeping their way in unannounced when I least expect them. I have been in a bad mood, off and on for a week or so, stressed out – feels like I’m constantly on the edge of a panic attack, if I only chose to let myself take the plunge. Not a good feeling – and not a good thing to be experiencing, especially on a conscious level. While my very job definition means I typically bite off more than I can chew – or rather force fed, if you want to be technical – I think I’ve reached my limit. With the addition last week of yet another job, that another person did full time, as they’re now moving to another department it has fallen on me to do. And it’s not exactly a stress-free position. It’s very time-constrictive, it has due dates and deadlines that reoccur monthly, and going through training for it (although I only need specifics for it itself, since I know how to do the work, just not when/where etc for that particular job) and realizing how much stress is going to be added onto my plate consistently has been a big transition for me. And I’m not exactly handling it well. Yes, what was once a huge part of my job is going away, as of the end of this month. Yes, another huge part of my daily activities will be quieting down next month as well. But as of right now, knowing how behind I am, and how much I still have left to do, on TOP of this other thing, it’s a bit overwhelming. I’ve spoken to my boss about it, with little resolution. I’m keeping my options open at this point, trying to figure out what’s best for me to do, BEFORE I lose it completely. I’m trying to keep myself in balance, but it’s not an easy high wire by any means. I think, with open communication (as much good as that does anyway) and a venting place and a period of adjustment as things come and go that I’ll be okay. I want to believe so, anyway. I’ve been at this job for almost 7 years now and I’m hesitant to leave, with the state of the economy and this company experiencing cut backs in almost every area, except the one I’m in. It’s nerve wracking, to be honest. So I don’t want to necessarily go that route unless I have no other recourse. I don’t want to. My worst nightmare is to move to another position or another company – everything be fine for a few months then be downsized or lose my job. Change is sometimes difficult for me. Change is sometimes difficult for everyone. But with the topsy turvey emotional road I’ve been running up and down, and being as busy and adjusting to practically living with Devon (she was over Tuesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday, and bringing over some of her stuff) adjusting to a new place to me as well, finding my way around the neighborhood, etc….writing has been something I’ve definitely wanted to do, and thought about doing – but just haven’t done.

I feel the urge the write on my story I started years ago. I don’t know if I ever talked about it here, really – I had this idea to write a story that kind of explores the nature vs nurture issue – and can be used as a beautiful metaphor for another situation dear to my heart. So…if serial killers do have something different in their brain makeup or chemistry – if there’s a “gene” that makes one more likely to become a killer than not – and you could test for it….people that tested positive were isolated, etc… if one of them escapes and goes on to murder people – is it because of the gene in his body, or is it because he was told he would? It’s an idea I’ve been playing with for awhile now – it would involve a lot of research, which I can handle and a lot of creativity, but I honestly think I could pull it off. I wrote a few chapters several years ago, and had a couple people hooked – then put it away and forgot about it. I’m also supposed to be working on a religious debate letter that is 2 years overdue. Maybe I can set all that up to work on this weekend, since Devon is working on LeighAnn’s dance recital on Saturday. If I get out all the books I need, and a notebook, and sit on the couch (did I mention we got a new-to-us couch from the Sarah squared on moving day? It’s fantastic, and so far (knock on wood) cat pee free) and knock some of it out. Our letters tend to be 20+ pages long, ranging from the gay/bible issue to the nature of the devil etc. It started out because of the gay thing. Speaking of which – I still haven’t spoken to my mother. I know her surgery went well and she’s home, but I know the next time I talk to her, she’s going to want my address, so she can send me information on curing the gay, and as amusing as that will be to read, I don’t really want to. At all. I really should have a conversation with Devon’s mother about my mother, and while they’ve both said absolutely any time, I still feel a bit strange and talking to my stbw’s mother about something so personal when we’ve never met. I want to…just hadn’t worked up that much gumption yet. Or something.

I’ve heard rumblings and rumors that the ex has been talking about me again. Whatever. How I feel about her is…completely ambivilant. Apathetic. My life, even with the stresses and challenges I deal with, is far too good to give a crap about what she thinks of me anymore. I don’t wish her harm or well – I don’t wish her anything, really. I just don’t care. And I wish she would afford me the same courtesy. Forget about it. Drop it. Get over it. Something. As long as she’s not trying to talk to me anymore, I suppose I should be counting my blessings. That’s something at least.

That’s about all…still adjusting…still growing…still changing. Always.