Reassemble

I'm a little sad to find out that it's been over a year since I've written anything. I've been wanting to, but to be honest I've kind of avoided this blog like the plague after all of a sudden it turned from a cry of joy into a broken mess of unpleasant memories.

I'm also a little sad to find out that after a whole year I'm really not okay with what happened. The dust has cleared and I'm not on the verge of throwing myself in front of a freight train anymore, of course, but instead of feeling like a wrought iron rod just impaled me through the stomach, now it feels like a bruise. You know, one of those bruises that doesn't hurt unless you touch it and then you can feel how sore it is. But here's where I'm at -- about 16 months ago I had everything I needed. I had a great home, a car, a cell phone, a job, and someone I loved so much it made my heart scream. Right now I have none of those things. I spiraled out of control and completely stopped caring. So I think it's time to implement some optimism before I spontaneously combust.

I have a job interview at a call center tomorrow. That's actually what made me want to write again. I couldn't bring myself to write before because all I could think to write about was something whiny. I guess now I just feel like keeping a sort of log of progress, something to keep me motivated in a positive way. You know, making improvements on my life so I have something to write about, and write so I'm inspired to make those improvements. I suppose it sounds like something a therapist would tell me to do, but I really don't care; I'm 26 and age is starting to terrify me. More than anything I'm scared of wasting one more second at rock bottom because I'm too busy feeling sorry for myself. I don't want to blink and be 30 with nothing to show for.

I was thinking about everything that happened and that old cliche about how things that don't kill you make you stronger. I don't want to sound like a buzz kill, but I really don't think it's made me stronger. If anything I feel tired, different, older. And then I thought, why look at tragedy as a catalyst for personal development? I've heard people say that every stumble is just another beautiful stroke of color on a painting, but maybe it's not. Maybe we're like mosaics. We're broken into pieces and then put back together again in some new and different way. Maybe it's a matter of metaphorical death and rebirth instead of hammer-and-nail improvements. And maybe that's just as beautiful.