In Whch the Other Foot Drops

So, my little peonies.

I am dead. I am a soundly crushed thing, so bested and beaten that I can't summon muscle tone, apart from these typing fingers. I really don't even want to get in to why, as any mention of it leaves me cold.

I have spent the better part of my life as a battering ram, daring the challenges to come so I could rejoice in the moment of impact. No matter how bad it got, some combination of attitude and pig-headedness got me through to the other side. I can't fight anymore. There is nothing left in me. Only a resonant, empty chest where every thud rolls from wall to wall like a cathedral. Only brittle, hollow bones like a bird. And yet, there seems to be just a little bit more. Enough to get me out of bed, to see my teeth brushed, my errands run. I do feel at the end of my rope. I'm not much of a crier, but lately I've found myself sobbing like a child, sagging against trees and support beams of bridges, unable to stop myself. The tears of a child who has tried everything to win the game, but just doesn't seem to have anything resembling a winning hand. I am out of things to try. I am out of rose colored glasses to change the tune of the song, when I can't turn off the radio. I am out. I have been wrung dry. I am fucking empty.

I turned off the lights to go to sleep last night, tucking myself in with the last remnants of my stoicism.

"We are fine. This is fine. It's a matter of attitude. Find the blessing. Find the lesson. We are fine."

Over and over again, I repeated this in my mind. But, ladies and gentlemen, we are not fine. I am not fine. Somewhere in the middle of this mantra, the dam broke. Cue the floodgates. Not small tears, but big, juicy, fat ones. Until they were no longer separate droplets, but great sheets of salt water pouring down my face, into my nose and gaping mouth, stretched wide with pain, almost yawning.

I don't think I've ever come closer to suicide. I could have reached out and brushed up against it's plated scales with a finger. Closer, maybe. I could feel it's cold breath like hands on my shoulders, pulling. In all of my years, in all of my battles of every kind, I have never been so close to letting myself be pulled under. Over and over again, images of me telling my family and friends the news would slap up against me like waves, tugging.

What is the plan? What is the plan? All I need to find my way out of this hopelessly tangled necklace is to find the best plan. How can I make the best of this? How can I best survive this? How can I survive this at all? What is my next move? In a quiet moment, sticky with half-dried tears, I realized that I had exhausted my options. There were no feasible maneuvers on the chess board. There was no good way, anymore.I watched my future play out in my mind's eye. It wasn't enough currency. The price was higher still.

I pictured all of the ways I could end. All. Of. The. Ways. I formulated a dozen prototypical plans. After twenty three years of trying to do what I thought everyone else would want me to do, and succeeding, despite all universal interference screaming at me to cut it the fuck out, the straw floated gently down, nestling amongst its brothers before the added weight snapped the camel's back in two.

I knew how I would do it, after an hour or so of bizarre, frenzied planning underneath the covers with wide, panicked eyes. For the second time in my life, I realized that I COULD do it, too. Stabbing down in one swift motion before the better half of my brain could catch up with me, much like ripping off a band-aid. Easy as a dream.

I waited for some idea to flicker into my mind, to save me. One did. I spent the rest of the night covered in snot, planning a move to Massachusetts. My heart started to beat a little faster. Is that a thing that someone could possibly do? I ironed out the details in my mind, as far as my ironing arm could reach. I could pawn my belongings. Pile what was left into a car. Drive. Drive. Drive. Put a thousand miles in between me and this exceptionally sweaty hell on earth, where god has salted the fields, ensuring that no brilliant seed of mine would take root. Where every effort blows away in the wind, weightless. Anchor-less. Drop this degree as easily as one brushes away a mosquito. It's weight on my shoulders would make the dropping easy. Just let it slide down the ol' arm, catching for a second on the fingers, then...thump. So beautiful. To just let this go. To hit reset. To start back where I was before I ever came here and did this forbidden thing out of fear of poverty, and the fear that I would not find my way to successful adulthood unless a pre-packaged way had been rolled out like a carpet before me. Choose the pre-sets, Davis. You can't go wrong.

The universe started giggling when I made my choice, I think. The laughter has surely by now grown into a roaring guffaw. I picked all wrong, and have done, my entire life. I have allowed my incessant worry wart-ism to inform all of my major life decisions. Before I began nursing school, I knew it was the wrong choice. I remember vividly the moment when I realized this, sitting in the front row of my favorite psychology class, in the last semester of my first undergrad degree. I knew I would much rather be going to graduate school for psychology, but I was already so far into my nursing applications,and my mom was already so happy and invested in this future for me. I was afraid to tell her. I was afraid to move on this knowledge. I closed my eyes and hoped it would pass.

I have paid the price for letting my fear lead me by the hand. I wonder how much longer I will have to pay that price.

I wonder what the answer is. I wonder where my muscle tone is. I wonder what to do. I wonder how to do it.




I woke up, this morning.

Dirty Sock

I feel like an old, dusty, dirty sock that someone kicked under a dresser. That probably has a lot to do with the fact that I am actually very dirty. I haven't bothered to wash my hair in a few days, and I have eyeliner in splotches all over my face. I'm getting through the gauntlet that has been the last few months, but "getting through it" doesn't at all mean "getting through it with shiny hair and a freshly scrubbed face". There must be something cathartic about matching your outward appearance to your inward. Even if people don't know the details, they can take one look at you and know that something is wrong. It's a way for me to express myself, I suppose, without having to ACTUALLY express myself, verbally.

You can't indent paragraphs on this goddamned contraption, and it is driving me crazy.

I just have to put gigantic spaces in between, like this.

One of my most pressing issues is my spiral into complete insanity. I'm sure you can see how this constitutes as a pressing issue. To summarize, I have lived every single one of my twenty-three years with this FEELING. It's that feeling you get when you know you're supposed to be doing something extremely important, but you can't remember what it is. It keeps beating on the door of my brain, reminding me that I'm not where I'm supposed to be. I'm not doing whatever it is that I'm supposed to be doing. If I were a Christian, or a Muslim, or spiritual in any way, shape, or form, I could reconcile myself to this idea. I could understand it. I would think to myself that the Almighty must have big plans for me. I could take comfort in the solidity of that. As you all know, I also watch too much Oprah. I've heard her say so many times, "life will tell you that you're going in the wrong direction gently, at first. Eventually, if you don't listen, those lessons will turn in to disasters. Eventually, it will beat the door down to get your the message". This is exactly what I've felt since the day I was born. Those of you who have known me longest have seen it for so many years. When I was a kid, I tried to find my life path by trying every hobby available to me: violin, tae kwon do, sewing, painting, volleyball, singing, writing, counseling, film making, even nursing. The list goes on and on. My entire family will always make fun of me for my lack of commitment to any of these things. But in my head, it was like this:

"Look at that woman play the violin. I wonder if I'm supposed to play the violin? Is that the thing? I'll take lessons. I'll bet that violin is totally the thing. I'll bet that's what I'm supposed to be doing. I'm throwing myself in to this. I can't believe I've finally found the hand to scratch this itch. I've found my path."

2 weeks later...

"Nope, no. No. This doesn't feel right. The violin is so beautiful, but this isn't the thing. This isn't what I'm supposed to be doing. I have to find it. I can't believe this isn't it. I have to find it."

I can't imagine myself without this fever. It's been chasing me around since I was a kid, and I never get tired of it. Unfortunately, where it was only a dull thud of a knock in the back of my head all throughout my childhood, it has now grown into an absolute THUNDER CLAP. I can't ignore it. It is beating SAVAGELY behind my eyes every second of every day. WAKE. UP. WAKE. UP. YOU KNOW WHERE YOU NEED TO BE, SO GO. WAKE UP, AMBER. SMASH, SMASH, SMASH.

Now, let's just say that I am buying in to this, that there really is some unexplained force trying to get my attention. Which, of course, I don't. But if I did, I do think I know where it wants me to go. I have imagined myself living in every location on planet Earth, and have landed on Massachusetts. For various reasons, all of which I am too embarrassed to discuss here. Now that I've found my latest inclination, I am so hungry for it. I'm like a starved dog, straining at the leash. Every day of nursing school in between myself and Massachusetts is a torment. I can see the thing that will finally make this horrible emptiness go away, and I am desperate for it, panting, shivering, whimpering. Absolutely desperate.

When I talk to my parents about it, I think they are mildly alarmed by my intensity. Hell, I'm mildly alarmed by my intensity. For the past few weeks, I've used this unexplained desperation for Massachusetts as evidence that I am finally on the right path. I'm finally going home. I've finally found it, and once I'm there, I don't have to keep running. I just needed to find my home, is all. I've searched for it in hobbies, people, and places. I'm afraid of what might happen if Massachusetts turns out to be another violin lesson. That will mean, of course, that this profound sense of "WRONG" won't be the violin, or nursing, or Massachusetts...it'll be me. I've just carried the malcontent with me wherever I go.

Don't get me wrong, I am moving out of the South, regardless. Emotional Brain wants the move as a way to find my true purpose, which could be complete and utter bull shit. Luckily, Logical Brain also wants to go away. So, even if I move there and end up still having this incessant itch, at least it will be an improvement on my current situation.

The South makes me feel alone. 99% of the people here disagree with me on every platform there is. I want to be surrounded by like-minded people, much like everyone else. I respect the popular views of this area, I just don't share them. I'd rather live in a state with laws that I agree with. Simple as that.

Nursing makes me feel alone. You are told to look and act a certain way. If you don't follow those rules, you get kicked out. Which I get. As my dad says, business owners are allowed to hire you or fire you as they see fit. If they feel you don't represent their company from an aesthetic standpoint, then it's their right to fire you. I see that. I do. It doesn't make me feel any less isolated, though. I have to wear a mask every time I come to work. It feels like trying to fit in to a sorority all over again. Covering all of my tattoos is something that I both love and hate. I love covering them because it's usually the only time when I don't feel like I am being judged way ahead of time. I hate covering them because I resent having to pretend to be someone else in order to receive a patient's trust. Diversity is one of the most miraculous things about the human race, and it is being beaten out of us as we enter the job market. We all look the exact same, and pretend to feel the exact same way about everything. It's maddening. We're all a little bit forced to cover up the miracle. From a Christian standpoint, I'd imagine the Christian god made us all so different for a reason. We spit in a creator's face by sweeping his masterpieces under the rug, where no one can see. No one seems to mind this. Just me. If I ever verbalize this distress, people just pat me on the head and tell me that it's just a part of growing up. Untrue. It might be part of the ritual of "growing up" that humans have created over time, but it isn't the best way.

So, what are my options? Flow with the river of things that I love and lose my job? Get stared at? Become alienated from people who are threatened by differences? Or paint myself into a different box, and be "loved" by people who haven't even seen me? Keep my job and the salary that I depend on? Which is the better option, here? What is the answer? I really couldn't tell you. I get pulled in both directions. That seems to be the trend, these days. The Davis family motto is "Hold fast". I think I'm going to have it changed to "I don't fucking know".