Still Broken (but under repair)

It’s been four years. Ow. Four years, and by my own definition, I’m still broken. Still here. Still hopelessly at home. It’s difficult to know what to say. If you’d asked me, as I published my last entry on the Passenger Mentality, where I would be now, the answer would not have been at home, or at least, not at my parents’ home. It is both painful and embarrassing to admit it. But here I am.

This blog was designed initially to spur accountability, though as every failed blogger knows, one must first be accountable to themselves before seeking external pressure. Or at least that’s how it works for me. The opinions and pressures of the outside world push me deeper inside when I’m a mess, and motivate me once I’m cleaning things up solo. So, consider this me trying to clean up again. This time will be similar to the last, though perhaps a bit more casual and less planned. I want space to stretch and breathe, to relax my mind and unfurl the lessons without pretension. And honestly, perfectionism is a poison. It erodes my willingness to work because I know there will be more work. Again: ‘casual’ is the watchword.

I still plan to dig into things and philosophize and interrupt myself (don’t know that I can stop). I also still plan to document the steps I take toward becoming the adult people tell me I already am. Admittedly, few of those people see me sitting here on a yoga ball, bound in an Alice-in-Wonderland hoodie and Dark-Side Darth Vader pj pants, musing over my failings and successes since last I wrote whilst idly bouncing and listening to unnervingly eclectic music. So…failings and successes…

The short list is: I’m officially a freelance editor and I have a day job at a community college tutoring Communication (and previously writing); I have my associates degree and am pursuing a second over two semesters, which will be followed by a Bachelor’s in Communication (and possibly writing); I drive places I don’t know aided by Google maps and my phone (but I still can’t parallel park and refuse to go into the city); I’ve successfully maintained a five-year relationship; I’m learning how to actually cook and working through a recipe book; I meditate daily; and I’ve managed to deal with a lot of my mental baggage. On the flipside, I still don’t know how to handle my finances, deal with my medical paperwork (let’s be real: any paperwork), or make remotely enough to support myself; I have minimal accountability or discipline; my body is a mess; I’m high strung; and, of course, general life skills are still seriously lacking.

But hey, I’m not exactly where I used to be. Just…close.

So here we go. Again.

Broken Boomerang Learns to Fly: Act I (The remake)

 

Changing Choices

“To improve is to change; to be perfect is to change often.”

                                                                                                      -Winston Churchill

Change happens like a clockwork calendar, days ticking by, indifferent to life’s little turbulence, weeks moving steadily into months until eventually, bloated by the gathered time, the year breaks open and births the next and we’re left reminding ourselves to write 13 instead of 12. One number takes the place of another and the days go by without a thought for those that came before, save for the small smudge where we erased the old date and deepened the new, denying the mistake.  But change isn’t always so simple, it isn’t always this to that; sometimes it’s this and that, sometimes change is gaining and growing without giving up what came before. Sometimes change is progress, an evolution into more that sacrifices only what hinders, what is no longer needed. I often speak of change and progress, preaching their power like a hypocritical zealot who believes in but does not bow to the doctrines of their religion. This fallacy can no longer sustain me. As trite as it is, the time has come to practice what I preach.

In the beginning, I told you that this blog was conceived to motivate me on my mission to be better, to break the cycle of the Boomerang Generation and to gain the skills to claim independence. But I failed to specify how. Recently I mentioned an epiphany, a revelation about the direction of this blog, the focus that would help me, and maybe even others, find my way. After the ado of absent attention, I offer now my intention to change.

Starting today, I am going to channel the Zeitgeist of the New Year, the spirit of resolve and resolutions that comes with the new, that comes at the beginning. Every two to four weeks I intend to learn a life skill that will ready me for battle with that repulsive monster known as “real life.” From changing my oil to taxes and tracking expenses, I am going to train in the trades of adulthood. Every time I accomplish one of these tasks, I will report the experience and offer advice on it here. The weeks in between will be filled with progress reports and the same types of posts as before, thoughts on the present and past and how they are woven into a transparent tapestry of my future-to-be. I welcome any and all comments, suggestions, and questions on the endeavor or anything I might bring up. It is my hope, that eventually this will become a community of Boomerangs and those who would guide us.

I have yet to decide what my first learned life skill will be, but once I do I’ll post an announcement and my thoughts on the topic before tackling it. And given that driving constitutes a life skill, a milestone of maturity, I’ll be posting my long-awaited adventure at the DMV sometime in the next few days. For now, I’m going to crack and peel my way out of last year’s battered skin, cleaning off the wasted wants and broken promises, the items uncrossed on too many to do lists and procrastination pushed too far, in favor of trying on something new, something sparkling with dids instead of didn’ts, something stained in what I will learn and sewn to witness the changing world and what my Will will make of it.

It’s Only Mostly Dead

I’m sure you’ve all been wondering what pit I fell into and whether or not it was truly bottomless. Well, it is the pit of Progress and Inspiration, and yes, I’m still falling. In between bouts of overwhelming vertigo, my descent has taught me a few things:

  1. When you are uninspired and/or burnt out creatively, it may be because you’re under-read. So instead of wallowing and accepting your fate, go out and find something to read.
  2. I am still a miserable failure at time management.
  3. I am still addicted to school.
  4. Finals week is still agonizing in light of #2.
  5. Just because I break self-imposed deadlines and regimens does not mean I need to abandon the project or activity they’re attached to (see: the blog that rose from the mostly dead).
  6. Making numbered lists is a self-perpetuating activity.

Anyway, this is an interim blog post until finals are actually over (my last day is the 10th). When I get back I’ll go into detail about my adventures in endless academia (past, present, and future), talk about my driving test (it’s this Friday), maybe touch on where my writing has taken me, and then reveal my epiphianic vision of where I now plan to take this blog (yay, narrowed focus!). Until then, I would like to apologize for my more-than-a-month absence and thank you for continuing to consume this little line in a much wider world of words.

Background: Building & Breaking a Boomerang

Rather than Tarantino-ing it, I’ll start my story with a bit of background otherwise known as the Beginning. If we were to take a glance as Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, from birth I would be placed on the third tier, which deals with belongingness and social needs. I never wanted for food or safety. My parents toiled amongst technology and the top-secret, building a better life for themselves and their babies-to-be. They met and worked together at Lockheed Martin in California building a career, in my father’s case, which eventually led us to Colorado. With their accomplishments and persistence came means and with those means, I was spoiled.

It began in part because I was the baby (my sister is ten years my senior) and in part because of how my parents were raised. Both teachers, my father’s parents raised him and my uncle in a world of scholastic achievement and discipline, instilling in him the value of hard work and the pride of a self-made man. My mother in contrast, was the baby of a bigger and occasionally turbulent family, at the head of which was my exactingly touch-the-TV-to-make-sure-it’s-cool-upon-arriving-home strict Grandfather. In both cases, my parents took to heart the things they lacked and sought to provide them to their own children whenever possible. A couple of months back, whilst discussing some of the topics that spawned this blog from their bilious depths, Dad said, “My greatest weakness is that I want my children to be happy.” It struck me with the blunt force of epiphany, embedding his wince-inducing expression of resignation and disappointed acceptance on the wall of my memory, a permanent monument to my codependent failures and yet another reason to overcome them. My Mom shares a similar fault to his: she has always been compelled to wrap us in a world-blocking blanket of affection—both emotional and material—vowing to never repeat the mistakes of her own parents. Alas, it is from these good intentions that a monster comprised of equal parts gluttony and guilt was born.

I was a horrifying brat from birth on through the better part of High School. Some would argue that I still am. I discovered at a very young age my propensity for logic, arguments, and typhoon summoning temper tantrums. The word “No” was temporary at best, a weak-willed obstacle in the way of my constant overindulgence and unearned demands. My parents found it easier to clear the clouds and wipe away my tears with wants than to stand their ground and weather the wailing storm. Unfortunately, this instilled in me a sense of profound entitlement. What need did I have of work when my desires were so easily gratified through battles? This belief extended to my academic career as well. In elementary school primarily, but even on through high school to a lesser extent, my Mom held my homework-hand, guiding the pencil with her own, giving answers wittingly and otherwise. In terms of chores, they were optional and my Dad consistently paid more than their worth. Cleaning the dog run alone was $20 task completed in half as many minutes. The truths of this past taunt me.

I do not condone the benefits of my privileged life; they have prevented me from living one of my own, on my own. Yet my awareness of the issue should not be mistaken for a condemnation, it is merely an analysis of cause and effect. Sadly, my parents do not understand. Despite how many times I explain it, my parents think I blame them. No amount of carefully cultivated words, levelheaded reasoning, psychological references, or frustrated, “No that’s not what I mea—“s will make them accept that it is not blame. It is an inference, it is the logical deduction that led me to lap up the bounty of bread crumbs, following them back to the kindness-caressed but ultimately careless child who dropped them. As my mom says, “It is what it is.” No parent can predict the path their actions will pave for their child. Maybe they’ll eventually grasp my guilt, my understanding, my shared responsibility for what happened. After all, it’s not as though I’m free of fault. My eyes never closed on the light of my selfishness, they never turned from trials I put people through, from the unnecessary force exerted to obtain trivialities and avoid work. Choices were made (often in the form of mistakes) and ultimately, the consequences are mine to bear, and mine to best. I love my parents and appreciate what they’ve done and continue to do regardless of the outcome, and hopefully I’ll be able to fix what I’ve broken and better what I haven’t. With a will repurposed towards working my world into what it should have been all along, into a place where I pull my weight and continue to push forward, I’m going to take the first step.

It all starts here, with a blog, a brat, and a bit of hope.