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| So I find that, every time I'm heartbroken, it's self-inflicted. I think I have a problem.
God. I just wish I knew what I wanted in my life. I wish I knew what would make me happy in the short-term. I wish that whatever DOES make me happy in the short-term would also result in happiness in the long-term.
I know what I want for myself later in life.
I just wish I could have it now, too.
</3 12.19.09
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| I'm in the ARC . . . and I should be working on physics. But I really really really don't want to.
The end.
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| Yesterday I finished a poem that I'd been unable to finish for 9 months.
I can't decide if I like it or not.
I feel, though, as if the ending is right for now.
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| Sometimes I wish that I had deep thoughts.
I remember there was once a point in my life where I'd enjoy simply sitting . . . and thinking. Life, politics, love--it was an open scape and clean canvas upon which I could paint different thoughts. Sometimes the colors and tones would mesh, and a philosophy was represented. Other times they clashed and it was necessary to alter the strokes and finetune the hues.
I don't know what exactly happened. My once inquisitive, diligent, centered self is now rarely manifested. I miss it. I miss having strong, formulated opinions. I miss the security that came with decisiveness, with conviction.
It's not that I can't still think deeply. It's that I don't. My passion for it has left me. I don't feel any need or desire to ponder why people act the way they do. I don't speculate on the best or the most efficient form of government. Where is the purpose in wondering what makes a relationship work, or what makes it worthwhile in the first place?
I feel like a part of me has died. I don't even know how I would go about . . . contemplation. I think it has to do with a fear--cowardice even. I don't want to be wrong. I have a great fear of being illogical or acting innappropriately to something I don't understand. Because of this, I no longer take part in the debates that my friends occasionally indulge in; rather, I passively sit on the sidelines, waiting for through to emerge and show itself.
More likely than not, the cause of my hesitance towards the thought that once inspired me to fight for my beliefs is my relatively recent and traumatic transition from Catholicism to Agnosticism. While some may think "traumatic" is a strong word to use, I would argue that it is perfectly appropriate.
When I was born, I was christened Catherine Elizabeth. My first name--Catherine--made me the namesake of Catherine of Sienna. Elizabeth--Elizabeth of Hungary. Both women are respected by the Catholic Churc as extremely powerful saints and exceptional advocates of God's righteousness and love.
From my first breath of life, I belonged to the Catholic Church .I remember distinctively, points where I was a young child and I saw a beautiful woman. She had yellow roses on her sandals, and a crown of them woven into her long, beautiful brown hair. Hallucination? Perhaps. I was maybe four. My mother told me that she was Mary.
My guardian angel's name was Rex, in case you were curious. I used to read stories abuot miracles where humans were . . . touched by an angel . . . so to speak. Even as I write this, tears spring to my eyes with the the memory of the comfort and security that I would feel in the night when I would pray that my guardian angel watch over me. The feelings I felt then were the same feelings of warmth, comfort and protection that I can now only draw from a human embrace.
I was often plagued with nightmares. I had dreams of demons and of persecution, and I would wake up sometimes in physical pain. My guardian angel was my greatest comfort. He protected me.
I could continue with my story, but there's little point. It's obvious that I was very intimately connected with my faith. I grew up knowing that there was something greater than me--something mroe. I knew that my soul was sacred, eternal, and that it was fragile. It was important that I take care of it. I also knew that Catholicism was the best way to take care of it.
I held onto my faith through my father's manic depression and unemployment; my mother's illnesses; my family's brokenness and my own solitude. I never doubted that God loved me, and that His greatest desire was to see me prevail and then be with Him in eternity.
I of course had certain doubts about my faith--or rather, they were specific interpretations that may have slightly clashed with official doctrine. It was never serious though . . . until my freshman year in college. I thought I would never be shaken. I was steadfast in the Lord.
But when the questions came . . . I had no answers.
I don't even remember what the questions were. I actually remember very little of those few weeks of my life, where all I had was questions and all I wanted was answers. It came to a point where I couldn't even bring myself to try to look for the answers. I despaired.
To have my strongest conviction--my reason for life--my greatest motivation--taken from me . . .
It was probably the most painful thing I have ever experienced.
So . . . I lost all my opinions . . . possibly as a defense, possibly because the initial premise was deemed irrelevant.
Since then, I'm not sure I've truly committed to any thought or belief. My mental faculties failed me on the most important part of my life. They could not be trusted. Correction--They cannot be trusted. Flawed judgment and thoughts only lead to pain.
I am aware that this is not the correct, or even A correct response to what happened. If nothing else, my wrongness should have been a challege to me to find the truth. I feel, though, that there is no point. I'm fairly certain that it is impossible to KNOW the truth. Each fact in life has to be based upon something else. Facts don't stand alone--it is the support that they are given that MAKES them fact.
Some of these facts are easily measurable, and their proofs are obvious. I know that my sweater is green because it is reflecting a particular wavelength that has been named "green" back to my eyes. But how can one prove an absolute truth?
I would prefer to let others do the thinking, and then decide what I believe based upon the soundness of their arguments.
The saddest part of this whole story is that I think I still believe it (in God, that is)--despite my knowledge of its iniquities and flaws. Even if I DON'T believe it, I WANT to believe it. I want there to be a God. I want there to be more. I don't want to die and become part of the inescapable vacuum of nothingness.
This, some would say, has to do with my inadequacies and weaknesses as a human. This is my desire for comfort and security talking. I believe, or want to believe, because I am afraid of the alternative.
I feel that it is morally reprehensible and wrong to believe in something because of this fear.
I've come, though, to a point in my life, where I'm not sure I care. I feel like I've become a worse person as time has had its way on my vulnerable mind. I feel like have have two choices: I can sacrifice my love of logic and some of my dignity, or I can sacrifice my peace of mind and generation of thought. To be honest, though, the damage to my esteem and confidence will stand regardless of whatever I choose to lose. So . . . should I choose happiness or self-respect? Which is more important?
I will forever stay in silence, waiting--hoping--that one day someone will come along and tell me the answer, and reveal that it really will be okay. All my worry and despair was for naught.
In the meantime, though, I will sit and listen, the words of everyone else bouncing around in my neglected head, never voicing my interpretations of their thoughts, never revealing thoughts of my own.
Perhaps, one day, I'll regain the strength and courage.
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| Being an RA kicks ass.
My co-workers kick ass.
This is awesome.
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