The joys of moving...

Moving is a pain in the butt! I could use more colorful words but I'll save them for the moments when I'm lugging yet another box out of the old house and into the new. I'm not excited about moving. I hate packing, unpacking. The whole process of moving is torturous. Except it's exciting at the same time. It means a new start. New chapter. New ground to explore. It means cleaning house, literally- and metaphorically-speaking.

Although I could go on and on about the literal pain of moving, for this post I'll focus on the metaphorical aspect of it. One might say that moving from place to place might be be an external action influenced by an internal force. In other words, I might internally be against or resistant to living in one place for a long period of time. I'm sure, if I did enough research, I'd find some sort of phobia on the books for it. I counted that in the past 10 years I've lived in 12 different places. I know that if averaged out it would appear I've lived less than 8 months at each place. That's not the case though. A few of those places were temporary residences or in between stops. Not that it matters, regardless I've lived in 12 residences over a 10-year span. That's more than I care to realize.

Maybe I was a gypsy or nomad in another life. For some reason, I really do enjoy a change of scenery. I like the sunlight entering the windows from a different angle. I enjoy the freshness of a clean home not yet littered with cat and dog hair. I enjoy getting rid of things that I don't use or have any need for. Maybe moving is my spring cleaning method. That would at least justify the number of times we've moved.

Let's break that down a bit further. Psychologists might postulate that my actions involving moving from one residence to another in the 
short span of time might be some sort of psychological reflection of what is going on inside of me. It might have underlying messages about my commitment to one place. Which could possibly reflect on my general feel of commitment. Yes, I know all that's possible. Fortunately, though, my commitment to a residence hasn't flowed into my commitment to my marriage. Seven years, blessed and strong...thank God!

Psychological interpretation aside, as much as I hate moving..the packing, unpacking, cleaning, sweating, frustration... I also enjoy the freshness that moving brings. Let the fun begin!

Racking the brain, trying not to cause a concusion.

I have a lot to say. A lot. Why? Because my mind rarely seems to take a break. I’m sure many of you can relate. This morning and for the past couple of days I’ve been racking my brain on what the topic of my next blog will be. I’ve even started a couple of posts on two different topics and basically walked away from completing them. The topics just didn’t seem right. I think what I’ve determined is that, to my own surprise, I worry about what people will think about me and my writing. And this needs to change.

The funny thing about this is that insecurity is only in specific areas of my life. In some areas of my life I don’t really acknowledge what people think about me. Example...my schooling. I know many people are truly happy that I’ve been able to make it as far as I have in my educational goals. But I also know that others either envy it or resent that I’ve made it this far. I am always grateful for any positive reinforcement or encouragement, but for negative talk...I just don’t let it impact me. I made a decision long ago that my education was a priority in my life. I’m doing it for me. For my own knowledge and personal goals. Why should I let others opinions impact me about it? Right?

Yet, for some reason, exposing myself for who I really am for anyone to read about....well, that is nerve-wrecking! This is something I need to get over because if I don’t, I’ll never reach my ultimate goal, which is to write a book. For years I’ve talked about doing this but I haven’t. For many reasons, I suppose, but mostly because I can’t seem to find that spark, that push, that inspiration that I need to reach this goal. I feel like I’ve got a ‘lack-of-confidence-writing disorder'. Let’s ponder that.

I’ll compare it to someone who has an eating disorder* (Disclaimer: I am not mocking, pointing out anyone, or belittling this disease - just using it metaphorically).

Similar to someone who looks in the mirror and sees someone who is fatter than they really are, I look at my writing and wish I could do better. I see the errors and flaws. I worry about the grammar. I’m grateful for spell-checker. Also similar is when people compliment and tell them they look great and don’t need to lose anymore weight – I get many compliments on my writing and yet, it’s hard to believe it truly in my heart. Or maybe it’s not that I don’t believe it, but rather, I have this fear of acknowledging that maybe, just maybe I am a good writer. Why fear acknowledging it? I’m not quite sure but I will ponder that further.

So I’ve decided that from now on I am going to just write my thoughts out. Maybe some people will get it; some won’t. Either way, I’m writing. 

Random thoughts of the day:

What is wrong with the family unit? What is wrong with people? Every week, if not a couple times a week, we see on the news that someone knocked off their family. Their whole family. A couple of weeks ago it was eight family members killed in their home...the one charged? A troubled son. Today, a man killed his family – wife and six children in Naples, Florida then flees to Haiti via the Miami International Airport. Nationally we see people dying at the hands of supposed loved ones. Even locally, there are stories of family members killing other family members. It’s out of hand!

Now, maybe it’s because I’m not in their position (and hope never to be) but the thought of laying a hand on someone I love and taking their life...well, I can’t even fathom it. Respect of life seems to be at an all time low and it truly is scary. Who can you trust if you can’t trust the people around you, people you call family, friends. Scary thought, right? The stories are all different. They come from all levels of socio-economical and socio-demographics. They are of every nationality and of both sexes. They are the least suspected. They are normal looking.

There are so many external and internal factors that contribute to the mental and emotional ‘snap’ that a killer goes through. I won’t sit here and pretend to be a psychological expert in any way, but I imagine that most of what goes on in the mind of a killer are rarely vocalized or shared with others. It’s all in their head. The voices, some say, arguing within on what is right or wrong. Justifying their actions. This is the extent of what I can imagine. Going any further, even in thought, makes my stomach uneasy.

What’s wrong with the family unit? What’s wrong with people?