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thirty two.

April 20, 2011

Today was a good day. It didn’t end up at all as I had planned it, thanks to sinus allergies masking themselves as croup in Alissa and me being forced to stay home with her instead of spending it at a workshop I’ve been looking forward to for months, but it was still a good day. I didn’t really do anything, but even that was pretty nice. I didn’t spend my birthday with anyone but Alissa, and I felt a little hurt that the two people that usually make a big fuss about it seem to have forgotten, since neither of them said, “Happy Birthday” to me, despite the fact that I talked to both of them numerous times through the day.

To be honest, I felt a lot like I did two years ago, but in reverse. I want to flush my system of Flagstaff and settle back into Denver without all the weird and awkward questions of, “where are you living?” and “are you working or just doing photography or?” and “what is going on with Alissa and her dad? Has he stepped in again yet?” And all the other questions that just feel wholly invasive to me right now.

Last night, as I put Alissa to bed, the huge ball of stress that I’ve been carrying on my shoulders the past few weeks burst and I broke down crying. Poor thing thought I was mad at her or something and she got all hysterical too. But I needed to let go somehow. It felt pretty good, but it didn’t really do anything more than relieve some of that stress.

I hit shut down mode a week or so ago — where the pressure of everything feels so unbearable that I choose to do nothing – to sit and “wallow” in my own solitude and quietness rather than try to pretend everything is okay. That’s the problem with wearing your heart on your sleeve — it’s a bitch to mask your emotions when you really need to.

I’ve been preparing myself to leap what feels like an insurmountable hurdle – and I can feel myself doing just what I used to do when I first ran hurdles in track – I am taking long strides to start, but the closer I get, I feel my feet begin to stutter before I jump. The ideas is that if I am close enough, clearing the hurdle will be a piece of cake. But usually, I end up with my toe tipping the top of the cross bar as I fall to the ground because I didn’t allow myself enough space.

I have been doing that with my own life lately: on the verge of change. MAJOR change. But I keep stuttering, hoping that if I just get six inches closer before I jump, I can get a better jump, I can clear the hurdle, I can land on two feet. Some days though, I’ve been wondering why I even signed up for the race.

I see the finish line. I do. I see crossing it with panache. But more immediately, I see how far I really have to go to get there, and it scares the living daylights out of me. And yet, I am no less determined.

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