2018 Has Been A Long Year …

… and it is only February (at least it was at the time I originally wrote this. It is now April …). I really thought this long year would end when January ended, but February was January’s ornery younger sister. I was not amused.

Instead of wallowing I was doing the best I could to keep my head above the water. It has to get better, right?! I was at the point where I was able to do more than just tread water. I was slowly moving forward …

Then March came in and decided to put January and February to shame. That totally angered April, who apparently thinks she needs to show the other months how to really show the world what “craptastic” means.

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I don’t even know which way is up anymore. I think the biggest slap in the face is I no longer have a therapist/counselor/person I word vomit to. I don’t even know why. He said he was in for the long haul. It ended up being a short haul.

I suppose I could find a new one, but honestly this whole experience enforced my belief to trust no one because everyone leaves.

So now that you know why all 20 of my drafts (yes I have been writing regularly) have not been published (it has been the longest year ever).

I want to discuss some other changes; namely the name. I needed a change. It is that simple. I had a temporary name (Sunshine & Daisies) until I could come up with “the one.” It just took awhile to discover the perfect fit, but I finally did.

My Patronus Is Coffee almost sums up my life perfectly. I figured “My Patronus Is Coffee With a Side of Posh” was too long though. Maybe that can be a subtitle.

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I think I need a travel mug that says “Andrea Runs on Dunkin” 

I do not sleep. I function off my many caffeinated cups of coffee (because decaf doesn’t even deserve my side glance). Coffee keeps me awake, semi-sane, and mostly pleasant. When people visit they offer a cup of the hot elixir to appease me (OK I may be making that part up, but maybe y’all will take a hint).

So to sum up … this far 2018 sucks, I have no grounding anymore, I can’t be held responsible for things I say or do if you visit me without an offering of coffee … oh, and I changed the name of my blog.

~Andrea
#bekindalways
#youhavepurpose

PS I will get those other 19 drafts touched up and posted asap.

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Dream Journal

I do not hide the fact I see a therapist. Sometimes you just need a little guidance or an extra ear to listen. Sometimes you need serious intervention. Whatever the case, there is no shame … or at least there shouldn’t be, so I try to normalize the completely normal by openly talking about it.

That said, my therapist suggested a dream journal. I can’t decided if this is to help me or to entertain him because I get some seriously weird dreams y’all. I tell my dreams to my husband and he always looks at me and says “Your subconscious is a scary, scary place.”

My dreams are so vivid I sometimes can’t even tell if they were a dream or reality. I hate that. I feel like I am going crazy when that happens. They just seem so incredibly real! Many nights I am sound asleep but fretting and my husband is left to groggily soothe me so he can go back to sleep. I rarely remember those dreams, but I always remember the feelings I had in them; fear, anxiety, stress.

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I have done a fairly decent job at getting my dreams written, but this morning the first half of my dream just ran away from me, like running water through your fingers. I find that frustrating. All day I have been trying to remember the first part of the dream. As I type this blog post, my mind is still trying to grasp that earlier dream. I can remember the second half completely. I can still feel the cold and damp from the fog and smell the brisk air … these things didn’t happen but they were so real to my subconscious that have stuck with me all day. The first half though? It is like when you have Deja Vu and can’t quite figure out why. Did it really happen before?

I am curious to see where this rabbit hole of journal writing leads. Will it open an inner perspective? Maybe it will simply provide some seriously interesting writings. Hm, maybe this is where my riches will come from. (I kid! I kid!)

I do have hopes for this endeavor. I am hoping that I will no longer hate the prospect of sleep (I can’t stand these vivid dreams). I hope to garner insight. I am not sure what specifically I am looking to learn, but I want to learn something.

So I have to wonder, who else has a dream journal? I can’t be the only one who has insanely crazy and totally “out there” dreams. Share if you wish.

~Andrea

Something of Value

My husband hung 2 white shelves in my kitchen for me. They are the type of shelf meant for decorations. They look perfect.

The night he hung them we were all in bed and suddenly an enormous crash woke us up. My husband and I went flying down the stairs to see, in utter dismay, one of the shelves fell. The anchors were still in the wall, but the shelf managed to fall and everything on it crashed to the floor. Oddly, the decorative sugar bowl didn’t shatter. Neither did the clay bird my 15 year old made in kindergarten. The mold of the 7 year old’s hand broke a little; the base and one finger. The finger I can glue back on. Everything else shattered.

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The upper shelf fell at 1:30 AM. A part of me wishes I had taken a picture of the epic mess it made. 

Someone mentioned to me how sorry they were that all my stuff broke. What I found interesting was that I wasn’t sorry at all.

Back track 4 years ago, I would have been so upset had this happened. I love elephants and one off the items that shattered was my little black elephant statue. The teapot my mom sent also shattered, as did the heart I made in Bible Study. I would emotionally attach myself to objects all the time. Why? Why did I have this attachment? I think it was a learned behavior. We are taught to put extra value on items that can reference any memory, emotion, or family history. However, none of these objects, aside from the heart, really had a meaningful story behind it. The story behind the heart is one I can simply pass down to my children, no object needed.

So what changed in the last 4 years? Why am I suddenly able to emotionally separate myself from objects I was once attached to? I think it was an evolution really. Over the last 4 years I dealt with so many unknowns, inconsistencies, changes, and more. I learned nothing is permanent or reliable no matter how hard you try to keep things “as is.” It took 4 years to learn this lesson and the comment from one person to realize I learned it.

So what does it mean? Is this a good thing or a bad thing? Frankly, I don’t think it is falls into either category. I think it is great to have sentimental attachments, but to a degree. We can’t attach ourselves to every little thing in our lives. We become obsessed.

I also think it is unhealthy to have zero attachment anything at all. We are humans and we are made to have feelings. That is one of the major distinctions between us and animals; and even then some species are closing that gap. But I digress …

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Some things help you remember moments more clearly; helping to to treasure the important aspects of life. 

Back to my shelf … Bummer the teapot, elephant, and heart broke, but it is OK. They are just stuff. However, had the hand or bird been shattered, I know there would have been tears. Why? Because, God forbid anything to happen to one of my children, these precious pieces of art that they hand made transport me to the time they made them. Their joy at showing me their amazing creations. Knowing their hands carefully crafted the items. I can see the pudgy kindergarten hands of my now 15 year old. I can see the sparkle of excitement in the eyes of the 7 year old. I remember odd things, like what they were wearing, and these objects help my brain to keep those memories fresh and focused. Sometimes we NEED the physical reminder so we don’t forget.

I understand this post is mostly babble to you and that is OK. I am realizing what things really matter in life because not everything can hold value, but I am also learning it is OK to have attachment to some things.

~Andrea