wasting the life I have by wishing for the life I want

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Mondays are hard at my job.
Today was a very Monday Monday.

There was a time when the dislike of this job would’ve sent me off into a tailspin of self-doubt and loathing as I was not doing what I’d imagined I’d be doing when I was young and full of dreams about the future.

Now I’m at a place where I’m remarkably okay with the fact that I’m not doing what I planned when I was fifteen. I have a place inside of me that wants to discover what it is that makes me happy. One day it could be a cookie, the next day it could be some orgasms, the next day it could be a book about cookies and orgasms.

When I was younger my dreams were big fluffy things that floated and sparkled and had no basis in reality. I was going to be a writer and I was going to never run out of things to write and I would create something amazing.

Don’t get me wrong, that dream is still in my heart, but there are other things in there as well. There is a dreamy joy and hope for my son, something I never could’ve picture all those years ago. There is also a satisfaction from being good at the job I have, even on a crappy Monday.

My thoughts and dreams of being a writer when I was fifteen had more to do with the books I read then any grasp of what was involved in writing. I was going to be biting and interesting like Dorothy Parker. I was going to be sharp and daring like Anais Nin. I was going to be clever and honest like Harper Lee. And those were just the women I wanted to be like, the man list was even longer with dreamy wild lives that would turn me into a writer.

Which is the problem. Nothing was going to “turn” me into anything. Nothing is going to turn me into something else. There is this thing in my head that speaks to my heart and says it is all well and good to be in love with being a writer. It is all well and good to have fanciful thoughts, but the truth is that writing is like any other profession, it is work. Fun work, fulfilling work, but still work at the end of the day. I can’t just have a fanciful imaginary writer’s life without actually writing.

This is something that I’m struggling with right now. I write, I journal, I letter, I do all kinds of things with words. On one hand, it for sure makes me a writer. On the other hand, I don’t make my living writing, so it doesn’t make me a writer. These are the two thoughts that go around and around in my head, and as recently as two years ago I would’ve ignored everything and just sat around fantasizing what I would do, and where I would travel, when I was officially a writer. I wouldn’t consider the fact that I have to come up with words that make something in order to have some fancy life.

Right now in my life what I really want to do is stop pretending that I will turn into a writer because I wish it hard enough. I want to come to terms with me and be okay with me, and enjoy me. If I write a couple paragraphs, that makes me happy. If I have a crap day at work, I can enjoy the company of friends and family and not wish my life away.

I guess I just want to stop pretending I’m going to turn into somebody else, and just enjoy the fact that I’m starting to turn into, and enjoy me.

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