It’s 1:30am in the bluegrass. That means I officially start my new job in T-6 hours. I should be sleeping, but I’m too fucking nervous/excited/anxious. I’ve tried counting sheep, bottles of bourbon, and how many names I can think of that start with the letter “S”. I’ve debated melatonin, red wine, and ZzzQuil. I flipped my pillow at least 7 times before giving up on finding “the cool side”. This could be a losing battle, and I’m okay with that. New chapter, I’m ready for you.
I have a small, leather bound journal. I used to bare my soul to it’s thick pages. Filled it halfway with heartache and universal teachings. It’s hard to read now. That was a different girl, one I can only remember when the right song is on the radio. I think it’s time I give it a little more. Something updated. After all, I’m practically brand new.
Twenty-four is such an awkward age. Yeah, 13 is uncomfortable and 17 is a roller coaster, but 24, 24 is fucking complicated.You’re 2 years removed from undergrad, but lightyears away from true adulthood. You don’t thrive after a night of drinking, you slide by with the aid of copious amounts of gatorade, a multivitamin, and tylenol. I had a conversation with my dad recently about my insurance policy and the possibility that I have inherited his acid reflux. Like, come on. I treat Zoe like she is my human child and I take fiber gummies twice a day. Fiber. Gummies. I don’t know at this point if I should spend more money on clothes or under eye cream.
At 24 your friends are getting married and reproducing. So, you begin taking trips to celebrate the ending of singlehood for said friends. You anticipate “Hangover” style debauchery but experience something much different. Like dinner discussions about how you never get carded ANYWHERE and how it would be more believable to say you were 28 than 21. You drink wine instead of tequila and discuss intimate sexual details in a not-so-sexual way. i.e. “I bottom more now because I am just exhausted at the end of the day, ya know?” I DON’T WANT TO KNOW. I don’t want to bottom just because I worked 8-5. I want to turn on Ginuwine and greet my love bunny half naked. I just said ‘love bunny’…god dammit.
I need 24 to find it’s happy medium. I either turn on rap music, put on red lipstick, and go out or I put on pjs, make coffee, and watch Netflix for hours. I feel more in tune with who I am than ever before, but so confused by this coming of age transitional period. That’s 24-a transitional period. John Mayer referred to 25 as the year of crisis. I’m going to skip the crisis shit and start accepting 24. I have a real, big-girl-pants-everyday job. I have a low alcohol tolerance. I have friends who are having babies and I have a wedding in October. Twenty-four isn’t 21 and well, that’s okay.
Here’s to not being a college student, to not being torn about who you are, and to growing up.
It’s been 2 days since I quit my job.I spent the first day of my pending unemployment engrossed in the culture that is Netflix. Today, iTunes radio. And so my thoughts go…
For starters, let my repeat, I quit my fucking job. I don’t remember the exact moment when I grew a spine, but nonetheless, I did. I walked out of that place with Aloe Blacc playing in my head and my throat clinched tightly to fight the vomit. It took 3 1/2 years, 4 promotions, and 7 bosses for me to finally admit how miserable I was working for money and not for purpose. There was nothing rewarding about analyzing sales reports and training cashiers. Jesus, sales reports? Anyway, I quit. After a 2 week notice of course, but still. No sales reports today, just this mediocre radio station and my snoring pup.
In the last 2 days, there is one thing that I have quickly learned-I want so much. I want to see the beaches of Maldives, the Seattle skyline, and Queen B live in concert. I want to feel the energy of Bonnaroo and the heat of Arizona. I want to rest my bones below the Rockies and spend my days soaking up the culture around me. I want to finish grad school and bid farewell to the Bluegrass. I want to know my little sister will be okay when I am gone and that my sweet Zoe can handle the altitude change. I want more ink, less stress, and Sweetwater Blue to make it’s way to Louisville. I want to pick the winning horse for once at derby, a summer that is drier than the last, and a chance to try every hand crafted beer in the city. I want to backpack across the midwest (and by backpack, I actually mean visit various cities throughout because I am not a light packer). I want to take a ridiculous selfie on some cliff that will make me nauseous. I want to collect postcards from every city that I visit and paint the coordinates of my favorites across my body’s canvas.
I am hungry for life. I am 24 years old and for the last 4 years of my life, I have done nothing but study and work, work and study. I want to start living my life for me.
…But first I need a job. Like a job that pays well and is fulfilling. Like one of the jobs I have applied for. Like now.
Moral of the story? Money cannot buy you happiness, but I would rather be riding a donkey in the grand canyon than listening to iTunes radio on my couch in Louisville.
I’m drinking local.
There’s nothing strange about that comment when it stands alone up there. Lots of lesbians like to hang out at coffee shops, drinking local and shit. Right? Typing obnoxiously long essays for grad school and discussing politics with their shop neighbor. They sip lattes named after street corners and adjust their grunge chic beanies. Not me though. I’ve never been that girl.
Me? I’ve always thrown my money at Starbucks like it was a cheap whore. But let’s be honest, excuse me, lezbehonest, that’s a terrible analogy because hookers terrify me and we all know Starbucks isn’t cheap. Regardless, you get the picture. I’m not that coffee shop lesbian. Yet, here I am, drinking green tea at a local favorite, typing on my laptop. No beanie, just a hooded sweatshirt and a backpack full of carmel apple suckers.
The real question is why do I care that I’m not that lesbian? That’s the question of the week, really. Why can’t I sit and drink local without feeling some sort of urge to look the part? Why the fuck do I try to be someone that I’m not? I asked my therapist this same question. Her response was simple. “You care too much about how others perceive you.” I wanted to reply with a subtle, 'no shit' but I decided to let it marinate for a few days instead.
I care too much about how others perceive me. I’ve spent my entire god damn life caring about what others have thought of me. I guess everyone cares a little, deep down, but when you care enough to catch yourself feeling uncomfortable because you chose to wear a hoodie to a coffee shop opposed to a beanie and TOMS (which hypothetically speaking you don’t even own a beanie), that’s when it’s an actual problem. And it’s not about this coffee shop even. It’s everything, really. I smoked my eyes and teased my hair in high school to bring the boys to the yard. Boys which I had no intentions of letting anywhere near my milkshake. In college, I owned a snakeskin t-shirt…
Long enough for that to settle? Okay, good. After graduation, I told everyone I was going to get a Ph.D after an 8 month break because Dr. Williams sounds so much better than Sarah Williams, Sales Support Manager or Sarah Williams, LEP or Sarah Williams, LMFT. Right after I came out, when I was 20 years old, I became a vegetarian for 3 months to impress my vegan love interest. Neither of those lasted longer than 90 days. I fucking love chicken. Once I listened to Celtic Woman for a solid month because I decided I wanted to befriend the dance team at the university. Like, the fuck? At what point in my life do I look in the mirror and say, ‘cool. That’s me and I’m fucking awesome’.
My therapist says self-acceptance is a slow process and more times than not, you don’t even realize you are rejecting yourself until you see it in writing or hear it from someone else. So here I am, drinking local and shit, putting it in writing. My name is Sarah. I don’t wear beanies, or dark eyeshadow, or snakeskin. I’m not a vegetarian and I can’t stand Celtic Woman. I like indie folk music, and green tea, and quality beer, and not-so-quality beer, and cotton v-neck t-shirts, and oversized scarves, and earth tones, and dark nail polish, and fucking chicken.
I remember a time when I felt physically obligated to verbalize any changes I was experiencing in my life. Lots of things have happened/are happening/will happen soon, so, let’s put it writing.
I.) I have officially put my big girl pants on. After 3 years with the company and 8 months of post-graduation slothing, I am in management. It wasn’t something I had planned but it happened. I was propostioned by my district manager about the job. I was hesitant but decided to give it a little time to marinate. After the second offer, I decided to interview. A month of waiting later, and the job was mine. I’m so thankful for the opportunity. This job will allow me to pay for part of grad school, my half of the wedding. and hopefully a bad ass shoe collection. It’s a good feeling.
II.) I’m starting school in 4 days. I feel slightly to moderately intimidated to not only be going back to school after an 8 month break, but to also be going to a different school altogether. I suppose I’m just more than ready to be finished with lab reports, and mid-terms, and 10 page papers, and final exams, and basically all things college related. But, I’ve got my 3-ring binder, and pens, and highlighters, and calculator, and smile ready. I’m doing this thing, god dammit.
III.) We’re moving after I finish school. I always knew that as much as I love the bluegrass, and I do love this state, that it just wasn’t the scenery I wanted for my future. So many people have negative connotations about Kentucky, but it’s home. I love so much about this place-the bourbon, and the derby, and the bluegrass (music not landscape), and the college rivalry, and the tradition, and did I mention the bourbon? Anyway, as much as I love this state, I love the ocean more, and liberal majorities, and professional sports, and year-round sunshine, and subtle tan lines, and Jimmy Buffett playing from the stereo of a Jeep Wrangler. So, we’re moving. I’ll be young once, and I’m going to enjoy it.
I have a bottle of local red wine, a Meryl Streep movie, and an amazing girl waiting on me. That’s my cue.
Until next time. *tips non-existent fedora*
My fiancé thinks I’m an atheist.
I don’t know that I reject the existence of deities so much but instead reject the thought of some ever-present being that holds precedence over me. It’s probably because I’m still angry. I don’t want to be angry, but it’s something that seems to have grown with time-the exact opposite of what everyone told me. It’s been 4 years, 3 months, and 4 days since I lost her. It infuriates me to talk about it. I feel it tingle near my Achilles and by my esophagus it’s burning. Sometimes I mistake it for indigestion or muscle fatigue. I stand in the shower and I am furious that I can’t call her to talk about my day. I can’t tell her that dad has morphed into some goatee sporting, money blowing, calls once a month person that I barely recognize. I go 7 months without venturing to my place of birth and I am filled with rage that she isn’t there to hug me on the porch steps or cry when i disappear up the driveway.
I shouldn’t be angry,
It’s been 4 years, 3 months, and 4 days since I lost her. I am finally scheduling an appointment to see a therapist. I don’t know where i will begin. I need to find a medium between sitting in complete silence and I’m a fucking mess because I’ve never dealt with the death of my mother and it fucking affects everything I do. I just want to remember her laugh and forget the slowing of her heart monitor. I want to stop acting like a god damn zombie anytime that I feel anything. I feel, I do, but my face, my face is always stoic. Like at her funeral. I felt everything. I felt it all, deep in my chest and my stomach. I felt every minute. So why did I just sit and cry in silence? Why do I still catch myself wiping tears that I didn’t even realize have fallen?
I don’t reject the existence of deities. I reject the notion that anyone has precedence over me. Maybe this therapist can show me a light.
All I want is to lay in bed all day…for days. If anyone needs me, that’s where I’ll be, on hiatus.
It ran through my head, once, twice, maybe six times prior to our “surprise date night.” Lindsay had asked, a few weeks prior, that I request off from work for a random tuesday in April. I thought to myself, I mean, this is strange but I like weird. So, I followed protocol and filled out my I-am-requesting-off-for-this-date-sincerely-me paper, filed it, and waited for our tuesday.
I should probably start by saying that as random as the day selection was, the idea of a date night itself was nothing out of the ordinary. Lindsay and I decided, as somewhat of a New Year’s resolution, that we would take time out of our busy schedules each week for date. Each week we rotate who pays and the payer is the picker so-to-speak. Typically, those nights either fall on a friday or saturday, but that can be changed if work or school get in the way. So, when Lindsay said that she wanted our date to be a surprise and explained that that was her week to pay, reservations had to be made in advance, and it was easier to get reservations for a weekday than on a weekend, I dropped any possible proposal scenarios from my realm of thought. I was told very little.
When tuesday finally came, I was excited for our surprise date, mostly because I’m borderline toddleresque when it comes to surprises. I got ready, slid into a black cocktail dress and red heels, and off we went. I probably asked 837 questions on the car ride to the restaurant. The 15 minutes felt like an eternity. We pulled up to RiVue, a 360 degree rotating restaurant on top of the Galt House Hotel here in Louisville. Its a restaurant neither of us have eaten at so I was excited.
Side Note: The Galt House was were we stayed on our first weekend trip together when we were both living in Lexington. We had came to Louisville to visit one of her friends who was in for the weekend from Alabama. We had been seeing each other for less than a month at the time, roughly 11 months ago.
Resuming… The restaurant experience was wonderful. The waiter was excellent. The food was outstanding. The views were perfect. We watched the sunset and Lindsay explained that we had one more thing planned before the night was over. I was kind of taken back because I caught a glimpse of the bill and almost choked on my wine. She was smart enough to consider this prior and explained that we were doing something really nice because she begins clinicals soon and will have little to no free time. I thought the gesture was precious and believed her excuse for spending so much money on one night. We walked into the lobby of the hotel and within 5 minutes a party bus went airborne on a speed bump. I thought, this can’t be real. We’re going to a bar?! Wrong. Bus didn’t stop. Five more minutes passed as i sat jittery from the wait. Lindsay kept being nonchalant, like it was no big deal that within 30 minutes she would be popping the question. I, on the other hand, was about to pee my pants for no damn reason because I was completely clueless to the events that would soon follow.
A horse and carriage pulled up and stopped in front of the hotel. Obviously, I didn’t even blink because I had already convinced myself she was taking me to a bar…the girl knows I love some beer. Lindsay grabbed my hand, and said, “I think that’s for us.” For 2.678 seconds, I thought to myself, holy fucking shit she is going to propose, but I was too eager to get in the carriage to let my mind wander past successfully entering with 4 inch heels on. We talked to the driver/operator/I don’t know what she’s actually referred to, for a minute, then we began our trip around downtown. Somewhere around the Kentucky Center for the Arts, she proposed. I’m choosing to not disclose what was said, for obvious reasons: it’s a private moment, it’s not something I would want to be reused, it was actually very original, it made me cry, etc, etc. I clearly reacted in true Sarah fashion, responding awkwardly with tears and Oh my gods, yes head nods, and a very positive I’m going to vomit. The remainder of the ride is a blur. I remember lots of hugging and face fanning and long stares at the gorgeous fucking rock on my hand. It couldn’t have been more perfect. She couldn’t be more perfect.
So there it is. My don’t-act-like-you-aren’t-ooohing-right-now engagement story.
I cannot wait to watch our lives unfold, together. :)
Tomorrow marks 4 years since my mom passed away.
It scares me that I can still remember the smell of the hospital room.
Waiting for an awswer.
That was your answer.
I stared into some empty spot in my conscious so in the future I could forget this conversation.
The one where you said you couldn’t love me anymore.
The one we had last week.
The one that ended with my key on your coffee table and your tears on my shirt sleeve.
I don’t know what answer you were waiting for.
I don’t know what questions sparked the curiosity that ignited the conversation that destroyed who we were,
Who we could have been.
Who really knows?
In that moment, the one where you looked at me, and your left eyebrow raised just enough for me to see just how empty it was in your eyes, I knew that I was numb, too.
I hope you know that.
I hope you knew that.
That I felt nothing.
And for that, I’ll always be curious.
Waiting for my own answer.
Excuse me while I rant.
I am so sick and fucking tired of my family making excuses for my honest nature. I’m honest, brutally so, when it comes to the people that I love. If you ask for my opinion, especially in a circumstance that involves your well being, and I care about you even the slightest bit, I’m going to tell you what I think. My cousin’s boyfriend treats her like absolute shit. He makes no effort to speak with her or see her, and they have been together for 5 years tomorrow. Five god damn years. I’ve had a bad taste in my mouth since the first time that I met him and he made some “innocent” joke about my grandmother who was suffering from Alzheimer’s. He’s a narcissistic bastard and I have never hesitated to tell him that I don’t care for his existence. Anyway, point of story, when I give my opinion to my cousin, who is flooding my inbox with her sorrows regarding her amazing bf, I tell her that she deserves better, and should stop using “5 years” as her excuse for trying to continue the relationship. They live 3 hours apart and haven’t been happy in over 3 years. Yet, somehow, my words are cruel and obviously a result of my void from losing mom. Everything is a result of losing my mom in my family’s eyes. I’m gay because mom died and I needed a woman in my life. I’m honest because I’m bitter because mom died. I don’t want to go to med school because mom died. What in the fuck?!
On a positive note, I didn’t know I had a family full of psychologists so that’s awesome. Common ground.