Actually, It Started

In May my friend Lauren wrote a post about God hitting her upside the head.

I started thinking about it today, right after the Universe was smacked me upside the head with its own two-by-four

***

This blog started last week when I sat down to try to write a post about moving back to Minneapolis/St. Paul. Oh right. You may not know about that because I never managed to write the fucking post.

I'm moving back to Minneapolis/St. Paul.

It scares the hell out of me.

When I moved to the North Country two years ago, I always suspected that the move was, well, probably not permanent. I liked the work I was doing well enough, but I didn't know how I felt about living in a place where it snows over eighty inches a year. And I didn't know how I felt about living hundreds of miles away from people I loved. And the longer I stayed here, the more apparent it became that I didn't quite fit in. I don't kayak or canoe. I like running, but not when I have to use YakTrax to do it. I would rather get papercuts on my corneas than go skiing in any capacity. But I stayed. I told myself I was staying because I wanted to learn to be on my own. I wanted to learn loneliness and how to live with it. My Daddy didn't raise a quitter.

And those were . . . well, they were part of the reason I stayed. The bigger reason, I suspect was because the North Country became a convenient excuse. My love life is rotten? The guys here are awful! Having a difficult time with anxiety? The sun is barely out for five hours a day in the winter! All those professional goals you have for yourself? Well, they're overly ambitious and now I can scale them back and not set myself up for disappointment!

A few weeks ago I interviewed for and was offered a new position, one for an organization I adore doing work that I love. It's a big job. It's a job that it's a big deal for me to have as early in my professional life as I am. It's a job that excites me and scares the crap out of me in (almost) equal measure.

I almost didn't take it.

My life here in the North Country, while it isn't particularly satisfying, is completely comfortable. I can be single here and not wonder if I'm not trying. I have a job I'm pretty good at, whose rhythms and quirks I understand really well. Here in the North Country, no one can see how terrible I am at adulthood. How I forget laundry in the dryer for a week, how my bathroom constantly looks like a group of frat guys spent the night.

The thing was, if I took this job in the Twin Cities it would be entirely unknown. It would be difficult and rewarding in ways I honestly could not fathom. And if I couldn't make a relationship shake out in the Twin Cities, surrounded by interested, engaging men, I wouldn't be able to make one work anywhere. And God knows a move South wouldn't magically make me into a grown-up.

In the end, I took the job.

***

Actually, this post started sometime earlier this year, when I wrote a post about writing dangerously. 

For the past--holy shit--almost a year already, I've been walking around feeling like my skin is inside out. Feeling like I have a bad sunburn and people keep poking it or making me take a scaldingly hot shower. 

It's been wonderful.

It's been terrible. 

Writing about what's going on in my head when I'm alone, writing about who I want to be and who I'm afraid I actually am, exposing all most of what's going on in my head and my heart has made me feel so vulnerable there are days when I'm afraid I won't be able to stand it. Writing about my mental health issues has convinced me that I'm never going to find a partner if they happen along this blog first. Who would want to be a part of this mess?

Writing about obsessive-compulsive disorder, writing about depression and anxiety has left me wondering ohmygodhowcanthisdoanyoneanygood? And there'snopointinselfflagellatinginpublic. Every time I write something about mental health I consider trashing the whole blog, of just deleting it straight off. Because it hurts to write these things, and it's really fucking hard to risk my family and friendships on something when I wonder what good it could possibly be doing.

This weekend I was sitting outside with some friends. I can't remember how it came up, but it came out that I write this blog. A friend had never read it, never heard of it, and I made some offhand comment about how it's mostly silly, mostly me bitching about my love life and being crazy. Rather unexpectedly Jacob sushed me and even more unexpectedly got really, really gushy about my writing. And it was uncomfortable. And it was sweet. And at first I chalked it up to sun and lawn games and beer and expected he probably wouldn't remember being quite so enthusiastic the next day. Until something tumbled out of his mouth.

"Her writing made me want to be a better writer." 

At this point I actually had to get up and go inside to refill my water glass. Because, well, shit. 

Three days later and I still can't articulate a response to that one. 

***

Actually this post started this morning, when I was up early writing and listening to the new Dessa album. 

You know where this is going.

There was that song. That song that suddenly becomes my new obsession, the song that I've listened to on repeat all day today. The song that is the perfect song for this part of my life. And, as always happens, it was the lyrics and really knocked me out.

Around here we don't like talk of big dreams

To stand out is a pride and conceit. 

To aim high is to make waves, to split seams.

But that's not what it seems like to me.

I wanna try, I wanna risk  .

And I don't wanna walk, rather swing and miss. 

And suddenly there was the Universe, wielding its two-by-four, swinging straight at my forehead. 

The only two things I have ever wanted to do are big things. I've always wanted to change the world and be a writer. And by grace or divine intervention or sheer blind luck, I am finally doing both. In two years I've raised nearly half a million dollars for organizations that are trying to improve the lives of girls and women. Over the past year, I've written some things for this blog that I'm really proud of. There are days when I leave work crying over some depressing statistics that I read or heard. There are days when I've written something that's too hard, too much of myself, and I don't want to share it. And these things are risky and have left me vulnerable and open in ways I couldn't have anticipated. But this morning, spellbound by this Dessa song I realized that these crazy, difficult, risky things I'm doing are helping be the person I've always wanted to be. And that I can either stay stagnant, stay comfortable, stay in the North Country and write small, obtuse poems that don't mean anything to anyone but me. Or I can take the risks, do the work, and possibly bite it, hard, but put something out into the world that means something. That makes someone rest a little easier, get a mental health diagnosis a little sooner. 

Who am I kidding? I made this decision a year ago , with that first post, when the Universe first started eyeing up my forehead.