90

I’ve started making things a lot.
Or maybe I could have said ‘I’ve been making a lot of things.’

Fiverr has given me enough extra income to act as a second part-time job that I can do from my couch. And the fact that each order requires a piece of new creativity has sparked a desire to be creative in other ways.

(For those who don’t know, I sell letters. I coffee stain pages, wrinkle them, burn them, and I write encouraging letters using my typewriter before sealing them, wrapping them with string and sending them out.)

I’ve been going to the park and painting. I’ve always wanted to try to paint, but I never started because I thought I could feel in my gut that I wouldn’t be very good.

But then I started falling in love with art and artists. And I realized there’s a market for everyone. And no one has the authority to define what art might be.

And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from Ze Frank, it’s that one should chase that happy and hold onto it. And making things makes me happy. And I think I’m getting over my fear of people ripping my self-confidence apart. Because I know it’s awesome. Because I finally feel awesome.

And so I have been drawing, and I’ve been writing, and I’ve been painting. And I want to start molding. A few years ago for an anatomy and physiology class, to explain certain brain functions, I made a brain out of clay.

Image

I miss making stuff out of clay.

So I’m going to start doing that again. And very likely try to make some money from it.

As for the paintings, they aren’t pretty. I repeat: are not pretty. But each has a story, and each one is an image of one of my feelings.

This is the feeling that I am feeling many things at once, and I feel a mushy mix of emotions. When I tried to think of an emotion to show, I just thought “I feel human.”
And so the name and the piece were created.
Image

And this one was inspired by the feeling of being overstimulated by your environment or mental chaos, and the desire for the world to go silent as someone shouts “It’s a flying house!”

A world of stillness.
Quiet.
A world of a single moment of curious suspense.
And awe.

A smaller voice asks, “Can we build one?”

Image

and this little bitty one was created for a friend, it is for their sister in bootcamp in the Navy. So I painted a dress, and an arm with an anchor tattoo (friend’s idea.)

Image

So there’s that. Along with my letters.
Image

I’m also still struggling to put together the first vlog in a series I’d like to do. We’ll see. This is going to be an excellent year. ^_^

Advertisements

Ruled

I sound so serious when I write lately, at least on this blog.

I never sound serious when I’m talking to someone, and I think I expected my blog posts to play out like some one-sided conversation.

Instead I sound a little…depressed? At least, I sound young and serious.

I think folks who know me might be a little confused by this blog if they get that impression.

The past few days I’ve been a very busy person, and I’m happiest when I’m busy and left alone to do the things I need to do. If I could sit a desk all day at home and just be productive I would be a very happy person.

I felt anxious at work tonight.

Though, I should mention, I’m an anxious person. I love more than anything being busy, but being busy makes me so anxious. I think that’s why I like being alone when I have a lot to do. When I feel very anxious, everyone’s voices seem so loud and grate on my eardrums like nails on a chalkboard.

Sshhhhh…be quiet. Close the door and leave the window open. I just need to work.

I felt anxious at work tonight, and I think it’s because my hours have been cut so much that the place is starting to feel foreign. Working at the service desk didn’t feel as natural as it usually does. I felt uncertain, like it was new territory. Like I haven’t been doing it all the past year. Almost exactly a year, in fact.

I feel strange around my coworkers. They have a lot of private jokes I don’t understand because I haven’t been around. 

I feel very ready to move. It feels like my environment is slowly pulling away and disconnecting from me, just in time for me to leave here.

It’s strange seeing these slightly pained looks on people’s faces when I mention leaving here. Maybe pained is too strong. It’s light sadness. A look of ‘I can feel what it’s like to miss you already, I think.’

I’m going to write each of my coworkers a personal letter on my typewriter, and on my last day just bring in the whole stack for everyone to sift through in the following weeks.

I’ve come to not trust people who seem eager to tell me their personal life stories right away. In my short life I have gotten to know four or five folks who right away tell me the most terrible things they’ve been through, usually on the same day I meet them, and every person has caused me to try to pull away from them because of disliking them for one reason or another down the line. 

Tonight as I pulled out of the “R” Us parking lot to drive home I saw one of my male coworkers walking across the parking lot, no car in sight. I started to pull back into the lot to ask him to let me give him a ride, but a split second after something in my mind made me jerk the steering wheel the other way. Even if I felt sincerely that I could trust him, there’s something about the details of the situation that would make me hate myself if something did happen. I would look it all over and think “How could I have been that stupid?” Even young males I feel I trust I don’t totally trust, even if emotionally I feel I trust them, there’s a part of my brain that doesn’t flavor my thoughts with emotion anymore that just says, “No.” It seems like a mixture of wanting to be safe for M’dear and finally learning something from experience. I think for the longest time I didn’t learn anything from experience, but I’ve finally learned something.

I don’t think I can say my life is ruled by emotion anymore, the more I read and think about my actions I think I should say that emotion isn’t the right word. Emotion makes it sound like I am swayed moment by moment, and act on every emotion as though each one is justified. I think instead I’m driven by affection. Affection for people and for the things I make. Or maybe by love. Since affection feels too light. I wouldn’t have stayed at one job for a year because of affection, I’m not mature or stable enough. I get bored and impatient. I stayed here for love. I stayed in one place for a year. I’m very surprised by this. I feel like this should be evidence enough when I explain how I feel about M’dear. I, Hannah-Elizabeth Thompson, the most impulsive and emotionally driven human being I thought I knew, who was an immature, impatient hopeless romantic whose interest couldn’t be held longer than three months, has stayed in one house, at one job, using one routine for one year, and has stayed in love with one person.

I feel very ready to move at this point, but there are still 97 days left.

I have to wonder what I want out of life at this point.

I know I want to firmly understand why I believe what I believe. At this point I just understand that unshakably I believe what I believe, it’s one of those things I know. But I feel that it’s not good enough. I don’t have an explanation, not one that I would know how to put into words.

I want to know near the end that I loved fully. I want to know I loved everything fully with the most open arms and the tightest, warmest hugs. I want to know that I loved it all and expected nothing in return.

I want to come to the point where I understand that I am owed nothing by the world. I hope I never keep score with my friends or M’dear. Folks who keep score seem so miserable. I am entitled to nothing in this life, I am owed nothing. Everything I have is either a gift or a blessing. When we’re very young it seems like we get it in our heads that someone, somewhere owes us. 

I want to be unafraid of sounding like an idiot. A girl in my anatomy and physiology class in high school was completely unafraid of being laughed at, she asked the ‘stupid’ questions without hesitation. I want that.

I’m anxious very often because I feel like there are days ahead where I am asked questions I don’t know the answers to. 

I have a fear of looking stupid.

I think I sound really ridiculous here. I think I sound silly.

It doesn’t sound silly as I write it, but I read it over and just dislike it.

 

 

 

Thank You

I feel a bit off today.

The past few days have been very, very, very good days. Actually, the past week and a half has been excellent. 

And it’s weird.

I feel like I’ve been sent from one story into another. I’m not used to feeling loved and accepted from all directions at once.

From what I’m working on, to the people I know everywhere, to even my job.

I always assumed I would sink into this feeling, like I belong here. I’ve been waiting for this feeling.

But it feels like I’m dissociating. I’m not a participant in my life in this way, I’m an observer.

I feel this way every time I suddenly have a very positive reputation, and I think it’s because I feel like a fraud. But this time it’s different, because I feel like I shouldn’t feel like a fraud for once. I feel like I am a pleasant person, I feel a little worthy of what people think of me now. I sincerely like myself, I approve of myself.

Once upon a time I was bulimic, and even after I was ‘cured’ there would still be relapses out of nowhere. I would have a really good month, and then some nights I would turn into nearly a robot while going through the motions of it. I would only be half aware as to why I was doing it, I felt like I needed it. 

Bulimia seemed to offer, or promise, two things for me:

1. A way to become beautiful

2. A way to control my life when nothing was within my control

It didn’t occur to me that I wasn’t supposed to have the figure of a 25 year-old at age 12.

It didn’t occur to me that being in total control of my life should not be my top priority.

But I’ve always wanted to be stunningly gorgeous, and I have control issues. And when you seem to be made of more emotion than actual matter, it’s incredibly easy to be selfish. It seems like a part of life is learning how to not be selfish. When we’re kids it’s just instinct to be this way, it’s for our survival. Baby cries light up areas of the female brain to act as nails on a chalkboard for us, that make us feel protective, like we have to do something. As we get a little older we feel sparks of empathy. But it’s up to nurture to fully grow what we were given by nature. 
Strong-willed child, that was the label they gave me. I think I’ve always wanted to control things. I was so darn bossy. Every unfair emotional reaction felt justified. Because when you feel things intensely, when you’re very young you just assume there must be a darn good reason for feeling what you feel, so you think it’s acceptable to express all of this very loudly and openly.

This turns you into an immature jerk. A very confused, frustrated, immature jerk, because you don’t understand why everyone is so unhappy with you. So you’re unhappy with everyone, including yourself.

My friend, Heather Weather, began raising me in little ways ever since I met her when I was 12 years old. Her bluntness, her sarcasm, her honesty. It had no patience for my bullcrap. 

I wouldn’t know how to express to her how grateful I am for being a massive part in making me who I am, this person I’m happy with.

Of all of the superheroes in my life, she was the biggest, the brightest, the sharpest for so long.

And then there’s the human being who has been present enough the past year to accidentally make me the person I am now, the person I’m happy being. I’ve never trusted anyone as much as I trust him. I’ve never admired someone as much as I admire him. His sincerity and intelligence gives me a “That’s what I want to be when I grow up!” feeling. There’s nothing scary about it. But it doesn’t feel simple.

I always expected being in love to feel simple.

But people aren’t simple, so why did I think love would be?

Maybe because it’s this one thing that seems very perfect, and it promises some of the greatest things you can experience in life. And great things seem to be born from simplicity. 

And love, real love, love that accepts everything complicated and flawed, seems like it would have the simplest intent. To embrace fully. To envelop completely.

And being a fan of hugs, this seemed like a pretty good deal.

And I feel loved.

More than my feelings I know I’m loved.

I know somewhere someone will think (and probably correctly) that I’m wrong about the definition of the four-letter ‘L’ word. This is what it feels like to me, though.

More emotion than actual matter.

I knew I would always be willing to travel thousands of miles over and over and over again to pursue happiness with someone, and a part of me is very happy to have been able to do that. To know I can say I would do anything for someone and feel as close to certain as possible that it’s true. I want to know I would do anything. That someone else’s happiness really is totally before mine. It would feel like knowing I’ve fulfilled a purpose in life.

I know I’m meant to love and be loved. And I want to know what it is to love fully.

I love the feeling of sitting next to him, and seeing in my far periphery when he looks down to look at me. I have no idea why. I’m sure I could guess if I thought about it long enough. It’s one of the most delicious things.

The greatest adventure. My greatest adventure.

It’s the most interesting, entertaining thing in the universe when he’s explaining something he cares about, or enjoys. I love learning things from him.

I want so badly to know that I am as grateful as I should be. That I’m sinking into all of these things that I have that I don’t deserve. My life is good. I am healthy. Everyone I love is healthy. I have more years ahead than behind me. I am crazy about the minds of the people I know, and the fact that I get to interact with them. I know the best people, the most interesting people. I have no right to be unhappy at this moment. 

And I am happy. But I want to be the happiest happy I can be, I want to soak this all in as much as I should. I want to paint a proper ‘thank you’.

Opinion

I’ve decided that I hate airports.Image

And I hope that I don’t end up hating all means of travel. Because I loved the idea of going through airports a lot until I actually started doing it.

I love trains, and tonight I found out that taxis aren’t so bad. But I think I enjoy them because I’ve only traveled by train and cab once. They’re new and interesting. Like the first time I sat in the front seat of the car. It may have been just a step up from the back seat, but gosh, it was thrilling.

Maybe trains are my new front seat.

I hope not.

I loved traveling by train, and I want to always love it.

One thing I dislike about my personality is I can love something fully for a very short time, and then I get plainly bored with it. I know that things are special to me when I stay interested in them longer than a few breaths. 

I don’t know what this means.

I would say my flip-floppy feelings are because I’m too young to appreciate things through time. Too impatient. Too used to instant intense stimulation because of today’s world where I find anything and everything any time I’d like. Dopamine within my reach whenever I have an extra minute before work or while I’m waiting for someone to show up for coffee.

But there are people three times my age who are like me in this way. Flip-floppy with their affection about things and sometimes people.

Maybe they’re my age at heart.

I remember watching a video of a 90 year-old woman who said she still felt 20 on the inside.

Sometimes it’s hard to believe that anyone really matures. At least, that everyone can learn how to mature.

Sometimes that progress to maturity seems like it can’t be more than a natural process that some people are born with and others are missing. Like some people can never fully learn empathy or patience or faith. They can be 90 but remain at 20.

Some people take pride in learning the opposite of it all.

When I was 17 I worked at Kohl’s. It was the Christmas season. It was my first real job. Well, I was technically a furniture salesman before that, but my boss at that job was a fraud and a bit of a creep, and I learned what it meant to be scammed because of him.

Anyway, Kohl’s.

I learned that I interact very well with people because of that job. I had no idea. Before that I thought I was too introverted to be bubbly or very friendly. But they put me a register and customer service and this different version of myself popped up out of nowhere, a version that I never had a shot to experience because I was homeschooled, and the homeschool co-op I attended was full of charismatic geniuses who seemed to unwittingly smother the squeaks of us acceptably intelligent introverts. The only reason any of the ‘cool’ kids at the place knew me was because of my psych experiment I did on the campus. I became known as ‘that inkblot girl’.

Darn it, sidetracked again. Okay, let’s try this one more time.

I would make conversation with customers as they went through my line. One very round woman went through mine one night, I forget most of the conversation, but I do remember the tail end of it. It stuck with me.

Me: Well, at least there’s optimism, right?

Customer: *sarcastic chuckle* I’ve been trying ‘optimism’ for 45 years and it never helped me.

I’ve heard quite a few folks state an opinion grown from personal experience as though it’s a universal truth. 

I tend to dislike these people a little.

Sometimes a lot.

Never mind. Often a lot.

I feel that there are very few things about life that can apply to everyone experiencing it. And it’s ridiculous for someone to think that their extensive experience with breathing gives them insight into the lives of everyone else.

Maybe I’m not being fair.

I’m not sure.

I’m reminded of something else I can’t stand (I’m sorry if I sound like a grump. It has been a day full of travel and a weekend lacking sleep), which is when someone dislikes something, and decides to argue as though their opinion makes everyone who disagrees with them wrong. You know these folks. The ones who hear you enjoy a certain book or movie or style of music. They all go about explaining your foolishness in different ways. Some more obnoxious than others. The air they suddenly have about them is that they are going to teach you, you poor uneducated child, why your enjoyment of this thing is not only so ridiculous they find it chuckle-worthy, but it is also apparently inherently wrong to like it. 

I feel that when it comes to anything involving creativity, where there are so many different styles of music and film and art, no one should feel proud about telling someone that it is wrong of them to enjoy making it or watching/reading/listening to it. When you love something there’s a bit of a child inside of you that comes alive. It’s wide-eyed and soaks up information. It remembers quotes and curves of faces and voices. It looks up at these new heroes and without trying begins to copy them in little ways. 

I think you’re a bully and a jerk and it’s wrong if you mock anyone’s interests. 

I don’t imagine that anyone who might read this (there are maybe a dozen people who would be interested enough to read my blog) is the sort of person that rant was directed at, but I felt like saying it. So there it sits.

This is another moment where I don’t want to post something because I know I’m not the first person to say it, and not even in a different way. But at least there’s only a dozen of you.

It’s very, very late. To the point of being very, very early.

So I suppose I’ll go to sleep now.

<^_^<