I noted on my facebook wall that I sometimes eat dessert before I eat dinner. I actually prefer it I think.

I do a lot of things backwards and always have.

I'm just going to put it out there and say it. I'm suffering from anxiety lately. The really awful kind where you think you're totally losing it.

I am hesitant to write about it for two reasons: because I write about it in my journal every night already and because sometimes writing about it makes me think too much about it and I throw myself into a panicked state.

I've dealt with this for as long as I can remember, which makes me very sad. I know everyone has their own set of issues and I know that everyone I see could be fighting a harder battle. But I have to tell you, battles of the mind can be excruciating.

I have been desperately trying to rid myself of the worry and have taken some suggestions from others. One of my friends bought me a peppermint plant that apparently eases the mind, my father suggested some relaxing tea (which I tried for one day but stopped after I came down with a splitting headache because my body needed coffee) and have even dusted off an old CD of affirmations by a very strange sounding woman named Belleruth.

Belleruth's voice is soothing in the "old woman who talks very slow" kind of way. I popped the CD in on my way to work the other day and found my mind instantly rejecting the idea of it based on her voice alone. But I gave it more time. I began to listen to the words. They were cheesy, they ARE cheesy. But after a while I began to enjoy "thanking my body for all it has done for me in the past and all it will do for me in the future."

I believe the point of the affirmations is to allow us to get out of our minds and to become more body conscious. Because our bodies are constantly fighting for us, helping us overcome life, more than we give it credit for.

Things could be worse my friends. I could have an awful terminal illness and no chance at living. That's a depressing thought if I've ever written one. But I don't.

I'm constantly reminding myself in times of inner turmoil that I'm just uncoiling some tightly bound wires that have gripped me since childhood. I've tried prying them open and allowing them to unfold on their own, but they won't. So I'm trying a new route. I'm actually talking about it with other people and hoping someone magically cures me. Even though I know this is an inside job, I need to lean on some support.

I know that time is key here, so I will wait for this to pass.

In other news, I love my job. At work I rarely feel anxious. Someone tell me why the most stressful 8 hours of everyday are a breeze for me but coming home and getting to bed are awful.

Oh wait, I've already told you: Because I am a backwards ass chick.

But a strong one.

4 Minute Prose

Sometimes when I think of you

All my fingers turn to blue

And then my face it gets so red

I feel as heavy as the dead

You laugh and balk and sulk and yell

You claim it's truth you're trying to sell

But it just feels like nails and stones

Are cutting me and breaking bones

It's you who makes me second guess

Some things I think I must confess

Is my nose too big, arms too fat?

And other vainish things like that

I came from you; you gave me life

But you bring pain and you bring strife

I wish instead of pushing me

You'd find a mirror or two or three

Until you saw what you really were

A scared, broken soul in lion's fur

~ Adia Belle

Tumbling

I just wrote a post and then deleted it. After reading it over, I felt irritated by my own negativity.

It was true, what I said. About how my mother's words cut me once again and how even after all this time, it still takes days for me to shake her.

But I actually don't feel like seeing the words written so deeply.

So I'm going to finish my laundry and head to bed. I've had an exhausting day of work and thinking. I hope and pray that I can get a nice full night's sleep.

The trick is not how much pain you feel - but how much joy you feel. Any idiot can feel pain. Life is full of excuses to feel pain, excuses not to live, excuses, excuses, excuses.

Erica Jong

Your sex is on fire.

The best part about a great novel is the feeling it provokes: pure ecstasy upon sliding under the covers just to spend more time with your main character. As I mentioned in my last post, I am knee-deep, heart-deep, soul-deep in Erica Jong-isms.

That means I'm reading about sex, a little drugs and more sex. More than that though, I'm reading words that describe the inner workings and insecurities of almost every woman that has felt love and lost it, felt broken but found strength to put the pieces back together again.

She's just so damn delicious, this Erica is. Every time I pick up one of her Isadora Wing novels, I'm ridiculously hooked.

I am almost at the finish line. Not in the book, but in completing my first week of work! I must say I'm loving it so far. I feel useful, I feel excited when I wake up, and I feel sort of, dare I say it, happy when I'm there. I am the type who waits for the other shoe to drop, so I am dreading the day where I wake up and wish I was still receiving unemployment checks but hey, here's to hoping I never have to write that post. Perhaps this is just what the doctor ordered.

I'm putting a lot of pressure on myself to really prove myself to the CEO, as his assistant. My ego tells me that at 26, I should not be an assistant anymore but that's simply not the case. I have a feeling in my gut that there's something here, something good. It feels kind of right. He's a cool dude with a great work ethic. And he's kind. Not many high-powered executives are. At least not the ones I've been in contact with. As soon as I iron out the kinks in learning my new responsibilities, I feel like I'll be able to let out a big sigh of relief. I'm still kind of holding my breath.

Dare I say it? This is the most alive I've felt in a couple months. We all want two things in life, at least I think so: To be loved and to be of use.

What's my muse and no new news and why do I care about you's...among other things.

I like to mix pink lemonade and freezing cold water in a coffee mug and drink it before bed. I've found that I am always particularly parched right before I resign for the night. The sweet and sour tang of the pink lemonade mixed with the refreshing cold temperature of the water always quenches my thirst perfectly.

The words have been bugging me to be released tonight. Apparently much needs to be written yet I've been avoiding looking at the computer because I have no idea where my writing is these days. It pains me to admit that I put pressure on myself to form compelling posts each and every time, which is why I often fall short.

I'm in the middle of another Erica Jong novel, "Parachutes and Kisses." Although I find some of her sentences exhausting and overdone, I am repeatedly blown away by her ability to lay everything out there on the line. She mentions her ex-husband who she's just parted with over and over and over again. After three times I thought, "that's gotta be the last time. We've already gone over how much you love him and I don't need to hear it again." Then she mentions him again in describing her home - the home they built together. I thought, "seriously, stop. Move on to the next topic." That is, until I realized how f'ing real she is. She's repeating the thought of him over and over because that's reality. That's what happens when you go through something heartbreaking - whether it's a relationship, a lost job or the death of a pet. When it means something to you, even if you try to get away from it, it comes back to you - subconsciously, consciously and if you write, it definitely makes appearances in your writing. So I am now able to accept her writing as is because it's real and she makes no apologies for it.

That's what writing usually does for me, yet lately I've been worried that I repeat myself too often and that other readers will not want to hear it. Notice that I said other readers and purposely italicized it. Since when have I cared about what other people thought of my writing? What's happened her? Have I gotten so caught up in the hype of blogging and commenting and feedback and hoping by blog attracts another follower that I've forgotten what writing does for me? What it's always given me?

A sense of relief, of release, or pride in the power of my own words sprung from my own mind. Art is essentially meant for the artist who composes it and no one else. I know this because when I try to write for someone else, after re-reading it, I feel embarrassed by my lies. Just like when I paint flowers just because I want a large canvas on my wall that others will like because floral paintings in family rooms are popular these days. I have yet to complete this imagined canvas because I can't paint when I have already pre-determined what the outcome will be. The outcome is never what I set out for it to be. And that's art. Who cares what other people want or like or comment on or expect? Right?

I told my Dad tonight that even though I'm hoping to finally land some type of "career" upon entering a new job journey on Monday, that in 10 years I'll be sitting pretty no matter what because my novel will have been written by then. Said novel has been talked about since I was a child and has yet to even come close to fruition. Yet I told my parents they would disown me after I wrote my already infamous novel because it's going to be a "no holds barred" type of thing. My mother said, "Go ahead, I'll disown you." My response was, "Don't worry Mom, it won't be a memoir. It's going to be fiction. Fake." She was quiet then. As long as she isn't mentioned, I'm still in the family. What does that tell you about my relationship with her?

It's awful though because sentences, words, phrases, scenarios and fabulous first lines bounce in and out of my mind like kernels of roasting pop corn, yet I only talk about it. I never actually try to make something of it. And the past couple of months have been full of nothing but time. Wasted time. Open time. Free time. And yes, I've blogged and I've done some soul-searching and some relaxing and some freaking out and some nervous breaking down, but I haven't written anything that I'm proud of.

Have I done anything that I'm proud of? That's a question I'm not ready to answer.

I do know that I will have to mention the elephant in the room before I part for the night. I am starting full time work in two days. Those who have asked me what I'm doing at this job have received the response of, "I don't know yet, I'll tell you when I find out."

How does an English major, creative-minded, scatter-brained and insecure 26 year old find herself working in Finance after a 4-month lay off?

By turning on the charm like no other, wearing nice suits, curling her hair, wearing makeup and realizing that if she doesn't land a job soon, she will legitimately be served eviction papers within the week. She put her mind to something and she got what she wanted.

I have no idea what I'm getting myself into but I just realized something: I can do anything I put my mind to. Yes, I really can.

The novel hasn't been written because I don't really want to write it. It's not ready yet. Maybe it never will be.

Yet somehow I'm ready to work full time again, learn yet another new trade and throw all my pre-conceived notions of who and where I thought I would be out the window.

It's time for another chapter - in the book called my life.