Choices

Ambivalence is a state of having simultaneous, conflicting feelings toward a person or thing. Stated another way, ambivalence is the experience of having thoughts and emotions of both positive and negative valence toward someone or something. (wikipedia)

Today during my writing class I submitted an essay I'm in the process of writing called I Don't Do Kids. A classmate felt that the overarching theme of my paper was ambivalence, and I concur. Children vs. Freedom, Superficial Stef vs. Soulful Stef, The life/ lifestyle of my best friend vs. my current life/ lifestyle

Someone else told me that my writing was earthy, direct and poignant. This made me smile- earthy, Earthy- my momma would be proud. It made me happy that someone thought my writing was lyrical- alive; sustaining life, soul, pets and plants. I'm frank, real, vulnerable and write as a seeker. At least that's what they said.... But, I like to think that I write while I am seeking. Without writing it down, I don't feel like I'd ever arrive. I don't think that my writing will answer the questions, but perhaps help make sense of the crap I deal with.

So, yeah, it's a gray area for me; growing up- deciding where to embrace being 29 and where to say, "You know I'm sort of too old for Hello Kitty spirals." There are three choice

A: The conventional life,

B: The unconventional life, or

C: The life I make for myself.

But ultimately won't I choose A or B? There really is no C, I'm slowly learning. I only think there's a C; a way to live an unconventional life in a conventional world, taking a dab from here and a smear from there and making a recipe all unto myself. I'm afraid it won't work.

This is a random excerpt from that essay: (pre-editing....)

I don't have a problem getting to sleep. I slumber hard and heavy, curled up in the fetal position, my knees in Chris’s back.

However, as a child stomach cramps inflicted me after the house got quiet and still and everything was dark. I would tiptoe into my parent’s bedroom late at night and barely whisper, “Momma, my tummy hurts.”

“Do you need to use the bathroom?” she would ask.

“No.”

“Are you gonna throw-up?”

“No.”

“Then what’s wrong?” This was a half-asleep, half-hearted response to what seemed like a very real problem to me.

“I don’t know, my tummy just doesn’t feel good,” I’d say.

“Go back to bed Stefani.” Sometimes she’d give me charcoal capsules just to appease me.

At night, I would let my mind run away with me, yank me firmly by the wrist and drag me through the most horrific episodes my eleven-year-old mind could imagine; most of them having to do with loosing my parents, or our house burning down, or robbers wearing full ski masks entering my bedroom. I’d worry whether or not the garage door was locked, if my sisters were still breathing, or if my dad was going to fall off the tractor and run over himself. (I’m pretty sure this had to do with the movie Man in the Moon.)

I would think of that verse in the Bible that says “the day of the Lord will come like a thief in the night,” which scared the crap out of me. Lying there in my Miss Piggy sleep shirt I’d be so deeply bothered; troubled by something I couldn’t even verbalize.

This is where I found myself one night this month.