Funny, I feel like Barbara Pittman.

Two songs of hers come to mind today. "Sentimental Fool" and "I'm Getting Better All the Time." Heehee.


When did I become such a scaredy-cat? The other night as I lay in my bed in my new apartment, I pulled the covers up to my chin and prayed that I could keep this up. I was rather surprised by the intensity of this fright, as I haven’t experienced quite that much fear of the world in nearly twenty years.

I guess, little by little, my happiness and self-confidence has been eroded over the past four years. I mean, don't get me wrong--I have learned a HECK of a lot and I have grown in leaps and bounds. Most of all, I’ve recently realized is that this seeming "downswing" is because I’m not truly doing well for myself unless I’m living alone. Even in Kansas City, when I was constantly struggling for stability even more than I am now, I was still going to school full time and working full time. But I lived alone at that time, and in retrospect, all these patterns make sense. I need to be my freaky little self where no one can see.

I feel like I need to submerge myself in “me-ness” for a month or two. Then maybe I can re-emerge at a point where I can look someone in the eye and smile confidently again…not forced, or self-consciously. Maybe if some fellow asks me on a date I can accept happily, knowing they are interested and knowing that maybe I don’t have to work that hard to make someone like me in "that way" after all. Hey, it happens! I've forgotten how to recognize it, though.

I just want to re-gain my confidence and 'find myself' again. I have found me before, and it was beautiful. I can hardly believe that I have gotten to this desperate point once again, but at least I am older, wiser and know how to fix it. And that's apparently what life is about.


But--I’m getting better already. This is why.

Last night I enjoyed myself and felt more relaxed than I have in months. Breanna came by at 7pm, crowed and cooed dutifully over my new place, and then we went to Marakesh for Mediterranean food. We split a bottle of great Spanish Cabernet, ate kebobs and talked non-stop about life goals, my living situation and her fabulous job in publishing and the oddities she runs across every day. She’s an amazing woman, and I don't see her nearly enough. After dinner we went over to a 2nd street gelateria, where I ordered a tiny cup of coconut and banana flambé –flavored gelato. We sat and ate our gelato and talked until 10:30pm, when she drove me home—to my own small but true HOME.

Amongst the boxes, topsy-turvy tables, misplaced chairs and face-to-the-wall paintings, I put on an Ink Spots record, fired up the tea kettle, and smiled to myself. I sat on the back porch in the summer humidity and watch the clear, nearly-full moon high above the live oaks.

I have learned that my apartment building is situated directly on the slave quarters of what used to be the Goodrich Plantation. There are graves from the church, yes…but older even than that are the small, nondescript markers of slaves. The church and the site have a longer history than I’d originally known. There are some grave markers even thirty feet away from my back door. It’s all historical land surrounding our yard and building.

I sat and looked at the moon high above the trees and realized just how old the trees are. I mean, 150 years ago, someone no doubt sat just where I was and contemplated the same moon above the same oak, perhaps a bit smaller then. Someone sat where I was and stared up and wondered "Why?" as they mourned for their child or sibling or parent. It brought a lump to my throat to think about it…the kind of lump I’d fully expected to experience in Spain, but did not.

And now I can get that sentimental lump in my throat any time I want to.

It sounds strange, but I find that a lovely thought. Melancholia has a distinct beauty, and I do not shy away from it.