Twenty-something (else).

both are less expensive than therapy.
both make my heart beat faster in all the right kinds of ways.

since may:
i’ve lost 50 pounds. that puts me at a weight that i haven’t seen in a decade. i’m a size four now. i have muscles that people can actually see. and i still believe i have work to do. i also believe that, pardon the cliche, i’ve gotten my life back.

i’ve thought about where i want to go from here, and i’ve made my decision that i’m going to find my way to the person who i believe is the love of my life. but i’m still going to make my life happen, and build a successful career. because yes, with hard work, i believe you can have both a successful personal and professional life.

i have found that there is not a person in the world who will ever make me as happy as he does. we’ve been through a lot, and it’s made us better and stronger people, both as individuals and together.

i know that there is more to life than going out and partying and being social. it’s about embracing your meaningful relationships. and if a month of weekends without a single trip to the bar means being able to afford a plane ticket to see the person you love the most, then it is worth it.

i’ve also learned how to cook. and i’m pretty good at it. not great, but getting there.

and for now, i’m in the middle. because i have something to look forward to, even if i don’t quite know what that will mean. regardless, i’m excited.

Writing has lost some of its charm for me. I’m not sure where or when that happened, but it did. I am scared that my one calling in this world has been tainted by the concept of content. I ran headfirst into journalistic writing – which, at face value, is wholly deprived of character and wit. It’s a soulless attempt at tact. It’s an attempt to avoid enraging sources, to inform the public, and to flatter the topic, regardless of how unflattering the subject matter. Now, as an editor, I strip writers of their raw thoughts. I pull their ideas for something attainable for the masses. I deplete human thought into brief, digestible ideas that are marred by puns and hackneyed wordplay.

What happened to the person who could write a thought-provoking piece about the first snow of the season? How have I been so trained to pull myself away from my words, as if they are something to be consumed? I fear, all too often, that my words are a full extension of myself. When published, they can be chewed, swallowed and spit out. These words are an easy way for others to place judgment upon me. That, in a world that is so ready to jump on an idea that it fears, seems like emotional suicide for a person that is willing to fill her words with herself.

As for me… my most honest writing style contains the excess dramatics that I carry in my everyday life. Despite being a witty person, I tend to ignore humor. Behind the pen, I become a very serious person. And I can take some heavy-handed criticism. But I’ve become withdrawn.

I’ve been consumed with thoughts that are not my own and thoughts that I wish I had first. I think that’s true of writers today. Not to speak for all journalists, but when I’m personally touched by an opinion piece or a narrative, I’m not met with that feeling of comfort or mental recognition of a concept. Instead, all I can think of is “why didn’t I think of that?” Or, on a bad day, “Interesting concept, but look at all those dangling modifiers.”

So I can pen a piece, much like this one, and I will peruse it to ensure that I have not repeated a single word, or misplaced a single comma – but I will not reread it for its meaning. I have always refused to self-edit. Perhaps that’s out of fear that my original thoughts were too pure and raw, and another look will cause me to second-guess myself. But in a less flattering light, maybe it means that I just don’t care, and I will do what it takes to get my thoughts down, solely to walk away from them.

Is writing a learning process? Is it a thought process? Despite the end and the means, aren’t all writers just pushing a stream of consciousness? From the minimal number of scholarly articles I’ve read, the brain development takes place in the action – not the process – of writing. We create these pathways by doing the physical action of putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. Is there any actual, tangible value to giving words value? Call it “mental stimulation,” but in the words of fellow tortured wordsmith, it’s nothing but “sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

And in this tale, “told by an idiot,” I fear I have accomplished nothing by somewhat ironically writing about how much I’ve come to hate writing.