It’s the end of my lease in the U District, which means that I have to change residencies. This move is different than the others have been, though, because I’m the only one moving–everyone else is either staying here or has already moved out. It’s strange, really. It feels more like leaving something behind than my other moves did. It’s hard to believe that I’m actually done with the UW, and with school in general, and I won’t be going back at the end of September like everyone else. The whole summer feels like it was actually just a temporary break, but I know that isn’t true.
I guess this is one of those moments where you start to feel old. I probably felt this way about high school graduation, too, but the future was so much more certain then. Now, I don’t really know what’s going to happen, especially with the fast-changing environment at my work, which offers absolutely no job security. I could be anywhere in a couple months, while everyone else is going to be back in the classroom, same as always. Disconnected. That’s the word. I feel like I don’t really belong here anymore. Trouble is, I don’t know where I do belong.
Perhaps I just need to get my proverbial shit together. But the thing is, I pretty much have it together. I have a job. I have somewhere to live, where I can afford to pay my own rent. I have new roommates who seem awesome and perfectly suited to my life-style. I have an amazing boyfriend, a supportive family, a life goal and a plan for how to get there. How much more together could I possibly be?
It’s funny how everyone else always seems so much more organized and comfortable with the direction their lives are going than you are. I know that’s not the truth–I suspect everybody is scared shitless most of the time–and yet it’s so easy to feel like you’re the only one. One of the little paradoxes of self-awareness, I suppose. But we all deal.
I just need to get back writing. Maybe that’s all that’s wrong with me. I always get mopey when I let my writing fall by the wayside, and things stop making sense. It’s kind of like substance abuse–takes up a ton of time, makes it hard to concentrate on real life, sends you into withdrawal when you don’t do it. Writer’s rehab should be a thing.
Introspectively yours,
M.M. Jordahl
“All that’s left now is purely poetic work, putting more life into individual places, as I’ve made so sure of the fundamental mood and dimension of expression that it won’t leave me groping around in uncertainty any more.” -Oskar Kokoschka
P.S. Am trying to get the Total Library up and running, but my beta testers suck. You know who you are. Will probably just open it all up and see what happens in the next of couple days, if only for something else to think about besides everything changing.
P.P.S. East-coasters, please don’t drown.
M.M. Jordahl 