My life, in not-so-brief

The storm has cleared, except for the occasional blip on the radar, and it looks like sunny skies ahead. For the most part.
Why did I suddenly chipper up? What made me feel better? Honestly, no real idea. I kinda just decided to do a few things, and I'm making myself do them.

I started small. I told myself I would send Valentine's to some people at home; all adults, people like my parents and grandparents, etc. Then I wrote a letter to my uncle in St. Louis, because I felt like I should. Writing these letters helped, a lot. It made me realize how, for the most part, my semester has been good. Classes aren't hard or anything like that. Don't hate my roommate (though she and I like to pretend-fight sometimes, just for some interesting drama).

Anyway. Then I decided to paint my mural. Yes, the mural I said I was going to do months and months and months ago but never got around to and almost completely gave up. I've decide to do it. And I've held myself to it, thus far, mostly by telling Meaghan-the-roommate "hey, I'm going to do ----" and then I HAVE to do it, because she'll ask me about it if I'm not. So far, I've turned in the paint request, primed the wall with two coats of fresh white paint, and sketched in the design--a whimsical sleeping woman in front of a field of stars. I pick up the paint tomorrow (at 3ish) and I'll work on the actual mural-painting this week. I've got it all planned out. And that's really good, too, because every time I get something done, I feel intensely accomplished; even though I know it isn't a big deal to whitewash a wall.

Not that everything has been peaches and cream. Definitely not.

When I checked my cell phone this week I found a message from my dad. My brother had tried to tell me something the last time I'd called, but had been yelled at and kicked off the phone. I figured it was just my brother being a dumb 12-year-old, as he often is lately. Apparently this was different, as I could tell by the tone of my daddy's voice when he left me a message on my cell. So, several days after he'd left said message, I called him back to see what was going on; apparently I called at a good time, my dad was the only one home and we could essentially speak freely.

This is what I found out. My dad, who has worked at Lowe's Home Improvement for quite a long time as a manager, most recently as an assistant manager, has quit his job. He quit because he was unhappy, in short, the longer reason having a lot to do with company politics and the fact that he's just generally tired of being the good guy always coming out on the bad side. For instance, he somehow managed to have the highest sales in the district and still always be reprimanded by his boss for insignificant things.

So he quit. He wasn't happy. My junior year of high school he was manager of a store, facing similar company political hassels. Then, he voluntarily downsized himself to assistant manager--partly because of me...I think he realized I'd be going away for school soon and he wanted to have more time with me and my brother (time he often still didn't get)--because an employee he had working for him wanted him to fire a mentally-disabled woman for not watering some of the plants, letting them die...because the man (the one pushing for her firing) had told her not to water them (what he meant was, "don't water them right now;" but she didn't understand, and didn't water them all day and the plants died). My dad left that store, and later on the other man was sued by the coalition advocating disabled workers, and was ultimately fired.

My dad quit now, though, because he just got tired of being the good guy always finishing last. He wants to become a teacher. A middle school or high school science teacher. Right now he's doing substitute work, trying to get his certification. He hopes to get a teaching job soon.

My mom was upset--apparently really really upset. She doesn't tend to like change, and she definitely didn't like this. This explains the fight and my brother half-telling me about my dad's decision.

But I was nervous, worried sick. I am really happy for my dad -- he was SOO unhappy -- but at the same time, I am worried about the economics of my household. I'm worried about all the money they are having to spend on my college education. I feel so expensive. I feel like I should go back home or something, stop spending so much, stop being so expensive. I feel guilty for not wanting to go home, for desperately wanting to stay here, but worrying that we'll run out of money.

And there is nothing I can do. I have applied for all the scholarships I can, and now I just have to sit and wait.

(I ask all of you who know my parents or know people who know my parents, not to divulge this information with anyone. We, as a family, are keeping this relatively quiet.)

And that is my life, in not-so-brief...

Billowing clouds of discontent

I am fermenting. Stewing. Simmering (so many food-related words, goodness!) on my anger, frustration. Earlier I was actively angry as I furiously cleaned my desk and related areas, taking out the trash and the boxes and the recycling that has been building up in our room without my roommate even noticing that I was doing all this, but that wasn't so much "real" anger as my expression of this deeper frustration and angst that just keeps existing.

I'm not even sure why I'm upset. It's just been one of those weekends. I feel ignored, invisible, and I am frustrated that I think about other people and never seem to get that kind of consideration in turn. I feel, at least, like I'm going out of my way most of the time to be inclusive, to invite people places, and, if I screw up, to apologize for it. I, however, never seem to be treated in kind. Megan is forgotten. Megan? Megan who? I feel like I work and work and no one even sees me any more.
Not to forget my current inexplicable feelings of self-loathing. Lately I've been looking in the mirror and not recognizing the person I'm seeing. I know, on one level at least, that I am looking at myself, but it doesn't seem like the self it should be. Something doesn't feel right. I made the mistake of going to the practice room with the full-length mirrors yesterday, and there, surrounded by images of myself, I couldn't help but start hating them, each and every one. In some, it was my cheeks, in others my belly that seemed to get pudgier as I watched, in others my eyes, in others my thighs laying bloated on the ground. I hate my name. My name, echoing with similarity. I am one of millions of "Megan"'s, hardly recognizable from any of the others. My name is one that belongs to a little girl, a small, chubby-cheeked spot of happiness. There are no such things as adult Megans or Grandma Megans or Aunty Megans. Where do they all go? All Megan's must die before they ever reach complete maturity--this seems like the only explanation. Or, perhaps, all Megans' are avoided by the rest of humanity and therefore never have any offspring, and those relatives they naturally have disown them so they will never have to claim relation to an adult Megan, which normally don't exist. Therefore, my fear of living alone and friendless is not only plausible, if this is true, it is inevitable.

What a pity.

I'll go mull over my discontent.

Chocolate Love

Yesterday I was chastised for not posting enough. Apparently I have a hungering audience, at least of one. Adam, this is for you.

I am currently in that Twilight Zone-y place between sickness and health. A am not sick, but neither am I entirely healthy. I have a puppy-dog cough that reminds me a lot of Jim Carey in "The Mask" when he's in the club pretending to die. My throat is sometimes sore. But other than sounding pretty awful, I don't know that I'm legitimately sick. I know I'm not sick enough for the cold medicine that I will take the instant I am sick enough, because that says SEVERE CONGESTION on it in scary yellow letters...I lack the severity.

Lessee, what else. Oh, Valentine's Day. Right. Eric is a sweetheart who bought me 2 red roses and 2 small boxes of chocolate covered strawberries, in two flavors, white and milk chocolate. In retrospect, it's a beautiful metaphor for our relationship. The strawberries also taste wonderful. Go team. Eric also, however, probably got me sick. So, boo for that. We'll try to recover.
On a high note, my grandfather (Pop) continued his tradition of buying me (and presumably his other teen granddaughters) a 2lb box of assorted chocolates for Valentine's Day. This was important to me, because I was seriously worried that as a college student, I no longer required a box of chocolate love from my Pop. This would have made me sad. This had been a tradition for some years now, and I would be distressed if it ended. But, fortunately the box arrived the 15th, and there was happiness in my heart. I even shared some with the roommate. Now said box is hidden from my sight so that I don't eat them too quickly. I have vowed to eat the strawberries first...there are three left as of now.
Note to self: write Pop a thank you note so that you continue to receive chocolate love.

That is all.