Last year, I wrote “I Am.,” and it quietly became “one of those posts” that people would write me about, saying how it spoke to them and inspired them. So I thought, “Why not revisit this post once a year?” After all, I Am constantly changing…
This is who I am.
I am struggling. Every day is a struggle, to stay above water, to gasp for air, to not drown underneath waves of stress and worry. I battle demons that people don’t know about; hell, I barely know about my own demons.
I am technically unemployed. Summer “vacation” is not a vacation when you’re a struggling adjunct professor.
I am proud. I hate asking for help, and I never do, even though I really need it.
I am someone who hates talking about money. If you bitch about your money and work problems, but you have both money and work, be aware that I kinda sorta hate you. Maybe. Kinda. Definitely. At least in the moment. Work woes are universal. It’s rare, as a twentysomething, to love your job. It’s even more rare to have a job that provides a great, sustainable salary, health benefits, and perks; no matter how much you may hate your job, having one like that is a luxury, one that I do not have. Right now, I’d kill to have expendable cash instead of worrying about where rent is coming from.
I am a cousin of two wonder people who battle Cystic Fibrosis. I am walking in the Great Strides for Cystic Fibrosis for my cousins Katy and Sean, who have battled this slippery sickness since birth. Katy, who never thought she’d get married and find love, is getting married at the walk this year to the love of her life, a great guy she met a few years back who is every bit as weird and quirky and awesome as she is. I couldn’t be happier for her, yet I worry about her health every single day. I am walking with her, as I do every June, because I
hope know that one day, they will find a cure.
(I normally don’t do this via blog, but if you’re interested in donating to the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation, click on this link! Every dollar helps!)
I am applying for my PhD. Wish me luck. I need more weight behind me when it comes to my career. Maybe I need a career change; all I know is that I need something more stable.
I am a person who feels every single emotion at any given time. I wear my heart on my sleeve. If something bothers me, I state it. I don’t give good “face.” My face conveys every emotion. I blush like a cheap hooker when I’m embarrassed or uncomfortable. I could never be a spy. I’d be found it instantly.
I am overweight. I hate myself when I look into the mirror or feel the folds of my fat, but I can’t seem to get in a comfortable gym routine.
I am someone who makes excuses. But what if my excuses are not really excuses? What if they’re legitimate? Who ever said excuses were a bad thing?
I am sexual. I fucking love sex. Sex is pretty much the only thing that makes sense anymore. It’s primal, it’s spontaneous, it’s orgasmic, it’s fun. The only expectation is mutual release. It’s refreshing to experience something so simplistic in idea, yet so layered, so intricate, so intimate.
I am tired. Of everything. Life has exhausted me. Growing up, nobody told me that looking after myself would be this hard and stressful. I’m tired and I don’t even do anything strenuous.
I am an elusive
chanteuse writer. I love to write, but it’s rare that I get to write what I really want to write, and it’s even more rare that I showcase my best work. It’s hard to capture inspiration, but I try. Maybe I could try harder, but it all seems so elusive. What is success if I’m not a successful writer? Is there success if I’m not a writer? If my writing career never takes off, and I never sign with an agent, will be successful? Will I even still be a writer?
I am. At least for now.