Hello Old Self, Have A Stay... PLEASE!

Today, I played my guitar until my fingers couldn’t hold down a string.  It’s been so long since I actually used my guitar as an emotional outlet.  Since I was 12, my guitar and my music have been my fellow comrades when it comes to battling waves of depression, sadness, happiness, change — whatever.  They’ve always been loyal to me.  However, I’ve allowed both of them to slip from my grasps lately and today felt like seeing an old friend.  
I think it was after reading my old blog that I realized the inner-change that has taken place the past two years is unacceptable and disappointing.  I used to write about philosophy, I used to write poetry, hell, I used to write just to write.  But lately, I have to find a reason to write.  
My music, my books, my guitar and my friends used to consume my life and my thoughts; they were certain happiness.  Now, the only thing that consumes my thoughts are the miserable results of my decisions.  I feel sorry for myself too much and even though I take full responsibility for anything currently wrong, it doesn’t make the pity parade any quieter. In fact, the debris from it manages to find it’s way in to every crevice of my life. 
It probably sounds a bit pathetic, but it’s really not.  It’s just the honest truth. I think about the battle ahead of me and it seems unbearable at times, but the fact that I still have a good head on my shoulders, that I’m still trying and that I still wake up every morning hoping for the sun to shed the clouds; I know I’ll be just fine.  
Those who know me best have always told me I’m stronger than I think but, naturally, I scoffed at them knowing they would never know the depths of my thoughts and errr, misery. 
But, being on my own, away from everything I’ve ever known and having pretty much NO ONE, has forced me to realize that, yes, I am strong and independent and, no, it’s not conceded to believe what other people say — especially ones that care about you. 
It just feels nice to find myself cast in just the shadow of my former self… the person I actually enjoyed being.  I doubt I’ll ever be that same person again, but the shoes still fit and buried beneath layers of dirt and stupid decisions lies the flesh of that person.  
It doesn’t matter how hard it gets, how much pride I have to lose, I don’t care how far I have to drag my dignity; no one else is going to fix any of my bullshit but me and after today, with sore fingers and a mind ready to take on any challenge; I am ready to quit taking baby steps and leap forward. 
I don’t care where I land, don’t care what I crash in to, don’t care who sees me fall.  I’m done with all the pettiness that I have curled up in to keep warm at night.  I’d rather freeze knowing that I am 100% free of guilt and 100% free of everything that I allowed to “destroy” me. 
Today, I have shed one, silky layer that felt like an 18 wheeler. 

♀

Welcome To My Future

I lived in Texas the first 25 years of my life.  I grew up around women that could cook, women with incredible confidence and women with class.  Living in Arizona, I can't seem to find many women with the same qualities.  Sure, they're around but they're not friendly and they're not nearly as accepting.  The ladies here dress the same, talk the same and act the same.  It's very disheartening.  So, I have taken it upon myself to uphold those fantastic values of what being a southern woman is all about.
Despite the fact that I can't cook, I always try.  Weekend mornings, you will be sure to find me making homemade pancakes, bacon and eggs with coffee.  Some evenings are filled with homemade breads, cupcakes or cakes with homemade frosting.  The best hours are usually spent in a comfortable chair reading a book or listening to music.  And rest assured, might I actually go out, my manners will be impeccable.  

Yesterday was one of those days when I actually went out.  I was invited by my boyfriend's mother and sister to a Holiday Shoppe at some local church.  It. Was. Fabulous.
Never, have I been a room full of so many women where I didn't want to scream -- they were fantastic!  They were kind, talkative, well-mannered and different.  They were cooks, mothers, wives and daughters and they were talking about ideas and giving helpful advice to one another.  It was a community of women who knew each other and shared with one another.
To those who know me, it's obvious that I'll, one day, become a cat lady.  But yesterday gave me and entirely different outlook on the infamous kitty lovers.  Sure, they're probably a bit lonely and they're kids have left home and they're bored and their husbands most-likely annoy them to no avail.  But instead of being bitter, old ladies, these bitches craft!
It's no secret that I have made fun of these women in the past, but until I became a lonely, bitter woman with nothing to do but bitch about how things used to be; I realized that growing in to one of these fine patrons of crafting probably isn't the worst thing that could happen to me.  There are plenty of worse things: alcoholism, hoarding, murder, 50 Shades of Gray.  

The thing is, yesterday was one of the nicest days I've had since the weekends I'd spend shopping with my mother or just sitting at her house cooking, reading and talking with her.  And, because of that, it made me very aware that one day, I'll lose my mother but instead of becoming even more bitter and cold than I already consider myself, I'll have crafting and plenty of old ladies who miss their mothers too.

♀

A Time To Kill by John Grisham

My mother loves to read.  As far back as I can remember, she's always had a book on hand.  Anything that might require waiting or any little sliver of peace and quiet she can find; she's got a book.  Her favorite genre is easily any legal thriller or courtroom drama book.  I grew up with the same love for reading but after fourteen, I outgrew my Fear Street and Babysitters Club books and found comfort in philosophy and poetry.  I did read fiction books here and there, I loved (and still do love) Harry Potter and even have a 7" tattoo on my right arm dedicated to To Kill A Mockingbird (still my favorite and Atticus Finch... totally different story).
When my philosophy books put me in depression, I'd grab one of her books off of the shelf and try to work my way through them but would eventually give up somewhere in the middle, unable to maintain interest.  After I moved in to my first apartment, she gave me a couple of books to keep around for when I needed to ease my mind a bit.  At 19, I read A Time To Kill as an adult for the first time.  The cover had always caught my attention when I was a kid for some reason.  I think it was probably the tacky marble background, but either way, it was another one of her books that I'd tried to read more than once and couldn't finish.  However, at nineteen, it certainly captured my interests.

I know I didn't finish it at that time either, but I did read a good 3/4 of it before turning my attention back to my philosophy (which was pretty good for me).  The book remained with me through about 800 moves and it wasn't until I moved here (Arizona) two years ago that I realized I no longer had it.