Needing Direction

So, I'm very overwhelmed. I thought by now, my mentor figure would have shown up and could help me with this. But whoever my mentor is, they have not come forward yet. So I feel stuck and pressured to figure my life out, and there's too much in me and not enough at my disposal. So I'm going crazy and everything in me is at war with me. The things I want are opposites. I can't get make any sort of plan. I need direction. I need my mentor. I need to have a plan. 

Two Journeys

Let me just take a moment to step back from my journey to say that for every few steps in either direction I take, I always manage to take a few the other way too. 

Friday I had my first programming lesson. I was so excited. Everything made sense. I saw what I wanted to do more clearly than ever before and, for a moment, I saw the path I needed to take. I saw the triads; I saw how I would need to merge the skills. And I thought I heard a little voice whispering "set me free". 

But today. My hand acted up. I was useless. I saw how I had no part of a future. There was no point to me. 

And I am longing to be someone. There are those who believe I'm better. That I'm a creator. I could be a goddess. I understand and I know I could create. My mind burns with power. 

And loneliness. I'm empty. My two journeys bleed into each other. I don't know if this cleverness, this wonder in me is feeding light or dark; soul or destruction. 

Once I marveled about whether I would choose humanity or fae nature. There is one choice I'd cling to, if I could, and I'd be happy. But I can't. So I'm taking the second choice and I don't know who I'm becoming. 

I don't know who I'm becoming. 

Missing (refusal of the call)

So. It has now been 33 hours since I have moved to MN. The concept is incredibly difficult to grasp. I've been here so many times just to stay a week that this honestly feels like that. Just a stay, not *to* stay. And, when I think about the permanence, I feel the slow creep of panic wash over me; like I'm standing in the ocean waiting for the incoming tide to swallow me. 

I have always struggled with this panic. I have chosen to name it separation anxiety, although I have never been formally diagnosed with such a thing. However, this demon of panic has been with me since I was very, very young and my mother can attest. I cannot abide being alone. I cannot stand goodbyes. And I most definitely cannot handle being separated from those I love. 

Even as a child, I could not stand separation, particularly at night. I have certain theories why this is so, but they will have to wait for another post. As a child, this meant I did not ever sleep over at a friend's house. I always slept as close as I could to my loved ones, even, sometimes, right outside their door. 

Now, of course, I cannot do that. I cannot sleep next to the people I love. I cannot hold them, they cannot hold me. I cannot be close to them. Which makes me anxious enough. There is always the compulsion to reach for my loved ones, to cling to them and never let go. 

But it is a hundred times worse with that aweful thing called "leaving". Taking steps away from those I love is always the opposite of my natural inclination. It always happens the same way. When I say goodbye, I'm allowed one touch; a hug, with their face nuzzled into my neck like it is catching the last breath I'll ever know from them, or a handshake or pat on the shoulder. Doesn't matter what the touch is. I disengage. I don't know if it is some sort of defense mechanism or if I'm just really bad at being a person, but I will always put some sort of guard between me and a final touch. That's where the panic starts. 

As I'm walking away, I start thinking of what I should have done- how I should have said goodbye. I think of how I screwed up what could be my last ever moment with that person. Ever. And that's what triggers it. I haven't done enough. I ruined something. I will never get a second chance. I will never get the chance to express what that person truly means to me. And every fiber in my being says turn around, go back (or go after) the other person. The weight of every thought, every possibility hangs on me in that moment. In each step I experience all the memories I will never get to share with them again. From then on, all we had will be mine and mine alone, unshared, gone. They stop being people, they live only as ideas in my mind. I hate that. I'd rather have the real person standing near me than an idea any day. 

But I can't change it. 

It's too late. 

It's irreversible. 

And I hate it. I just want my loved ones. I just want them with me forever. 

It is no different now. 

I want to run back to NYC and embrace my beautiful friends. I want to pretend nothing has happened and just hold each of them a million more minutes. 

And there's no peace for my heart. She is missing parts of her- the people she loves, the places she has known and lived in for almost two years. She wants to go home. 

I dream about the apartment. I go through doorways and expect to see the sights of the city. People enter the room and, for a brief moment, their faces are the ones I left behind. 

Even the little details are so different. Chris wanted supper and I thought oh, just use seamless... Sigh. 

For a place so familiar to me, everything is strange. I don't like it. I already think of going back. I want to. I want so badly to run home. 

I don't know what I should do. My mind says there's no going back, but that just fuels the panic. My heart says there's no other option. I'm so close to using the little money I have to get a ticket back. 

I don't know what kind of monster that makes me; unable to feel the love all around me here, because people do love me here and I do love them; unwilling to see the damage going back would cause. 

This could be the worst this anxiety has ever hit me. 

Short of finding someone I love, who loves me, to hold me all through these long long nights, I do not know how to help this. I do not know how to get through this. And I've been weeping almost nonstop since I said goodbye to Tristan at the airport.

Sometimes journeying is hard. This is almost too hard to bear. I don't know how to fight it. 

A voice from reality

I am not a hero. 

I am an ordinary twenty-four year old woman who loves magic and mythology so much that I am convinced we are inescapably entwined. I am a writer. 

Tomorrow is a big day for me, as I grab three bags of my things and move halfway across the country. I think I am trying to make peace with that decision and, to do so, I've invented this silly little game where I chronicle my journey as if I'm a part of Joseph Campbell's Hero's Journey. 

So that's what this is. It is me following me, through the lense of an epic story. It's me trying to convince myself that this is ok and will lead me to a better life, a better me, and an adventure of a lifetime. 

And we shall see what will happen. 

The Call To Adventure

For the millionth time in the past year and a half, our hero stared at the collection of eclectic DVDs, posters, and Star Wars action figures littered about the apartment and, although not technically a hero quite yet, contemplated the unlimited potential contained and suffocated within her. The mundane existence in which she found herself burst like a bubble in her brain. She simply could no longer abide the moment in which she was caught, caged by every thing and surrounded by no one. 

If only there were people, she mused, carelessly digging her fingers into the couch pillow across her stomach, I would know where I was if only there were people here.

People tell us where we are, when, what reality we live in; everything she knew about the world she got from clues from people. Therefore, without people, our soon-to-be-hero was lost. 

And she found herself lost so often recently. Friends seemed to flee from her in terror or towards selfishness. She just wanted to be around people, surrounded. That was all she wanted. 

And it was all perpetuated from a desire for chaos. 

Our hero was a master of her own thoughts and feelings. She was a creature governed by rules, by discipline and, though necessary, it was not a necessity she cared for. Her everything was entirely and completely predictable. And she loathed that. 

People, however, were unpredictable, so long as she kept a variety of people around her so she never truly got used to them. Glorious. That was her word for people. It was glorious to her that beings could exist with such beauty and inconsistency that any pattern of behavior they might exhibit could be, at any point or place or time, without warning or care, recklessly abandoned or changed forever. This was the true and utter thrill of life. Mortality, not of the flesh, but of character. For good or Il, ideas, morals, trains of thought, all gone in a flash. Chaos. 

However, alone, our hero grew angry and defiant. And that could be motivation for chaos, which it was. 

I can be chaos as well. 

So, an adventure began. She had the ability to at any point change her life forever, so she chose to. She chose to move, to start again, and to become a hero. Just because she could.