From My Window

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Sometimes you have to force yourself to stay home, to ignore your friends, to simply hibernate in your bedroom with a thick book and doodle pen. Sometimes you have to remember how vital solitude is for your contentment. Sometimes you have to not read the readings you need to read and instead bullshit around on Facebook and joke about how you are the girl from the Ring. Sometimes you have to smile, recall that distractions — and embracing said distractions — can be good. Balance, it’s all about balance, and if you’re not being obsessively 100% in what you’re doing, this is often a sign of ease, not mental disorder, not perfectionism, but the beauty in allowing yourself to be human. Sometimes you have to laugh alone like a lunatic, laugh at how cheesy you can be, and then attempt to return to your studies. Sometimes you have to pause everything to take a photo of the event so you can blog about it and feel productive, because — news flash — blogging somehow feels so so so much more productive than reading research that you probably don’t even need to read to complete your mania paper by next week because you apparently are already a master of the connection between mania and creativity. Sometimes you have to shut up, take an Ambien, and let yourself sleep.

That paragraph was only supposed to be one sentence.

If you don’t know me in real life, the above is how I talk: I start a sentence and then I just don’t stop. I literally will go on and on and on and on and include EVERY THREAD OF INFO that I can possibly tell you. I like to think, though, that I give such a performance with my rambling that I’m not annoying. I think I just have really lovely friends who deal with it, who simply humor me.

Must return to the book. Must eventually sleep. It’s again cheesy, but I’m excited to wake up in the morning. I love my days. I love my nights. It’s weird — and nerve racking and oddly horrifying — to be this content and consistently happy. This isn’t a normality for me. It’s invigorating.

I’m in a talkative mood. Probably because I didn’t go out tonight. For a lethal introvert (I regularly go through frequent phases where I won’t leave my house for weeks at a time unless mother drags me out by my toes), I can be very social, very hooked and enthralled by social situations. Have I mentioned I love people? Generally adore them and being with them and watching them, strangers, family, friends, loony bin folk? But in terms of being social, like I’ve said, I go through phases. But don’t we all? Friends can become an addiction. That sounds negative, I don’t mean it that way, I only mean that I just get stuck in my ways, and I don’t know where I’m going with this necessarily… I won’t deny that part of my apprehension towards having a night in was the fear that the one quiet evening alone would snap me back into my recluse ways and make me hush hush towards all my friends, disappear into a cavern that no one would be allowed in but me and my books and pens. I don’t think that’s going to happen though. I’ve never been too recluse in Colorado. That’s more of a California thing…

GO TO BED, HEATHER!