excerpt from my real diary

Today as Mom and I watched Dr. Phil on Oprah, Phil said that everyone needs to find and have a passion. I remarked that I don’t think I have one, and Mom disagreed. Of course piano came to our minds, and I must say I do treasure that, but I’m not sure it can be considered my passion. Then she said writing. Writing? Why, of course – I write almost everyday. But isn’t this somehow different? Are the pages of my diary allowed to be considered writing?

I almost feel like it’s more appropriate to say that overanalyzing is my passion. That’s all I do, in actuality. I think, breathe, and live on paper, but it’s not really creative. Then again, I suppose that’s not incongruous with my life in general. I’m not really an improviser, inventor, creative type of person. Only in thinking, perhaps. I take the music on the page and express it my way; I take the words off the page and imagine them my own way. I am an interpreter.

But really – my passion is overanalyzing.

I hate to focus on today’s Oprah, but it was all about labels we live by. One woman was what she called “and independent businesswoman.” Oddly, that’s what I want to be. This makes me (over)analyze what I actually want. Somehow that label is only part of what I want. I’ve always wanted independence, I’ve always wanted to be a successful woman in a large city, and I think I will realize that goal. However, I also want a relationship. Yes, independent, but at least a little dependent. Is it a paradox to want a man to take care of me at the same time?

I feel so selfish in my ideals for the future. As of right now, I don’t want kids, and can’t see myself as a mother. Mom says that will change, and maybe it will. I just don’t know. How would I balance a career and kids? I feel like I couldn’t work at first and still be a good mother. Business hours are longer than school, and I don’t believe in day care. Maybe I’ll just have cats my entire life.

I’m really sorry to keep dwelling on this entire Alex situation – I tried to avoid the topic as long as I could – but things just don’t make sense to me. Fireworks in Nashville – wooden roses – tears coming home – notes saying I love you – you saying you were falling in love with me – me knowing I was falling in love with you – saying you’d never been happier – fireworks until Chicago. So maybe that’s what I don’t understand. Was it really all that I remember and we just screwed it up with our physical relationship? What happened? Wooden roses…