Annie Queries

The fear that I could have something is almost as scary as the not having it at all.

Is this normal? Do you ever get this way? Or am I the lone passenger in this streetcar named Desire?

As Is

That's me in a nutshell. "AS IS."

Broken.
Scared.
Wanting.
Hoping.
Caring too much.
Heart on Sleeve.
Way too tapped into her emotions.
Weepy.
Angry.
Confused.
Heartbroken.

I'm just sitting in the Clearance Aisle.
A little busted up, but so wanting to be chosen.

EDIT: "If You're Not First, You're Last"

So says Ricky Bobby. And in a way, I think this sentiment holds true in my life.

I want everyone (all of you) to be happy... even at my expense. And in doing so - in wanting everyone to be fulfilled - I'm often left wanting. Waiting. Hoping. Crying. Alone. As much as I believe and long for all of you to find your heart's desires, I can't seem to find a way to mine.

Someone has been on my heart for some time. I have prayed for him and prayed over him. Prayed that God would draw him closer to Himself. That God would pour His mercy and grace upon him so that he would breathe in the freedom of trusting and loving his Savior. Prayed that God would do these things with/out regard for my heart or how it feels, but, for his sake above anything else.

Tears have been shed as I've tried to rationalize all of this. I had hoped that I could somehow spare myself the pain of not being chosen. Again. Hoped that my brain and reason would best my heart and its whirlwind of emotions.

Mission: FAILED









Last night my city, Philadelphia, had its first taste of victory in decades. The entire city erupted with joy. For years people held on with hope and for years were left heartbroken. And as the people crowded the streets breathing in victory, a small, pea-sized hope grew in me. A hope that maybe this time love would find me at last.

Today, however, I am confused and scared once again. The edges of my heart are fraying and hardening again. The cocoon is being built up again around the soft parts. And my heart is preparing to be let down again. To be discarded and turned down again.

I don't like this. The ambiguity and possible (probable) delusions of grandeur have me dizzy, crying and itching for answers. I want to know, but I don't.




Times like these, I wish we all could win.

Hi. My name is Annie and I'm an...

Yesterday, I cried and pleaded with God.

I was so drunk with thought, I became nauseous. My brain was spiky and the light hurt my bloodshot eyes. The world was spinning and I was shivering, suffering a hangover of sorts.

I'm in dire need of AA for the Heart.

I Just Don't Know What to Do With Myself...

The heart - correction: my heart - is irrational.

I am, for the most part a person of reason and thought. I like to prepare for what's ahead and plan out the best course of action after mulling over the pros and cons. I'm a "just in case" kind of gal.

But when my heart is involved... even just a little bit? Fogettaboudit. It's all fogs and chaos and questions and roads that lead to Nowheresville.

*sigh* I don't know what to do. The brain rattles with thoughts. The heart aches for answers. And I am drifting as I try to find God's cool waters and rest.

These Photographs and the Mirror Has Two Faces

My mom tore up most of the photos of my dad after the divorce. I guess it was her way of forgetting about him and the pain he'd caused our "family."

A few years back while leafing through old photos, I came across one she'd missed. An old photograph of the two of us, daddy and me; of a tiny baby Annie, naked - save for my diaper - and laughing as I sat on my dad's lap. I took that photo and hid it. Partly to remember the dad I now mourn so... the one that disappeared years ago, and partly for my future children so they would at least know what their grandfather looked like... even if they would never meet him.





I am my father's daughter. I have his puffy, baggy eyes and his full-lipped smile. His round cheeks, short neck and stocky, muscular build. I have his chubby hands and feet that aren't graceful or lithe like a woman's hands should be, but strong and decisive and heavy. I am the female version of him. A clone in ways.

There are days when I can't bear to look in the mirror or at old elementary school pictures. Looking at my young face, I see his and it breaks my heart. And sometimes, I wonder if my mom has ever felt the same way as she looked at me. Wondered if she saw him, the man who had tore her heart to pieces, in me.

I see him, even when I don't.

There Goes My Hero...

A few days ago a friend and I had a LONG discussion on matters at the forefront of both our hearts. He shared his anger and frustration at the social injustices he witnessed all around: at work, on the streets, everywhere. It enraged him to see the poor slighted and dismissed, uncared for and forgotten. The growing chasm between the those in the upper echelons of the financial caste system and the poor breaks his heart. And yet... He was heartbroken and ashamed to say that he does nothing to help reconcile the situation. Another victim in a growing trend of self-preservation.

Where is God's justice?

If you have kept up with the news lately - in between the latest democratic-republican brawl for the white house - you may have learned that former American Idol contestant, Jennifer Hudson's mother and brother were murdered. (I've learned that police believe her young nephew was also believed to have been killed as well). Police believe an estranged and recently paroled family member may be the culprit. The reason for this killing spree? A car. A crappy, piece of metal and chrome.



Times like these I, too, wonder where God is and when He will bring about His righteous justice. Especially when His calling us to patience and trust results in so many people suffering. I just don't know.



Yesterday one of our assistant pastors , Jared, challenged us to believe and trust in the sovereignty of God. When things are grand and life is good. But, especially when times are rough and confusing and pain echoes in the faces of the people around us. Seek the greatness of God in these times.

Trust in His wisdom, not yours.
Trust that He will make right all that has gone so terribly wrong.
Trust His heart breaks, too.
Trust that He's coming, running, racing towards us (all of us) with grace and mercy in His hands.

He, the Great Judge, will set things right.

Just hold tight and wait... Hope is coming and redemption is in the air.

Avril Lavigne Has Me Down...

Why is it that I'm drawn to complicated things when all I want to do is to take the high and easy road?

Why do I have to go and make things so complicated?

Project: Runaway

I once asked a friend how she ended up in Philly. Having been raised here for most of my life, it was hard to believe why anyone would willingly come here of all places. She told me she needed a change of scenery.

Later on, however, she admitted she had come to Philly to run away from her hometown and from the skeletons that lurked about as constant reminders of issues and problems she wasn't quite ready to face.

Lately, I've had this need to run away myself. Not so much from problems, but towards something. To my detriment, I was (am) always sensible and reliable. The girl with the good head on her shoulders. The one who'll take care of her mom.

I don't want to be that anymore. I suffocate under these burdens. I thrash and recoil. I want to run for my life, but feel this unseen familial tether ground me.

On Friday (the most depressed I've ever been), I sat with my mom in the kitchen eating dinner. I ate in silence, forcing the food to go down, eyes studying my bowl of rice cake soup. And I wondered if this was my lot: to be at my mom's side.; her constant companion and the sponge to soak up all her concerns and distresses. I almost cried.

A few days ago, as I was exiting a nearby mall, I saw a woman in her late 50s pushing her elderly mother around in her wheelchair. It was obvious to me that theirs was a co-dependent relationship.

I watched them as the daughter wheeled her mother to their car. Listened as she spoke. Observed my current situation plus 25 years traverse across the parking lot and drive away to an all-too-familiar life.

I watched and felt my heart sink deep into the waters of hopelessness. Lord, surely THIS isn't the life you are calling me to? I can't. I need to be free from this, Lord, as selfish as it is, I want my own life. To be happy and loved. To do things at my leisure. To live.

I cannot walk any longer in these filial daughter shoes that my heritage seems to have bound my feet in. I cannot. Will not. And come hell or high waters or the scorn of my family, I will escape from this. For my mom's sake and for my own.

The Sound of Silence

Me: Hello blog. How are you today?
ANNIBELLE: ...
Me: Hello? Is anyone there? I have so much I need to talk to you about! Please respond!
A: ...
Me: Please?
A: ...
Me: Fine. Whatever. Hmph. [Storms out]
A: ?

[end scene]

All in the Family

I just skimmed through an article on MSN today about how birth order effects one's success.

After reading the articles findings on First-Borns, I'm beginning to wonder if I have older siblings out in the world somewhere or if I'm adopted because nothing could be farther from the truth. I'm more akin to the personality-type of the youngest sibling (minus the "wanting to be the center of a attention" thing).

[You can read more on the article here]

Dumb

For days now I have needed some outlet for what's in here (points to heart and head), this low, barely audible, almost subliminal droning and moaning I can feel agitatingly pulsing within.

Sitting at my piano and tickling the ivory keys left me unfulfilled. And, strumming my guitar made me wish I knew more chords since the song that needs to be released in me is in minor and flats [Unfortunately, I know mainly bright, happy major chords.] My fingers betray their duty.

I want to draw or paint, but cannot: Hesitation and a lack of inspiration cripples me. I think the only things that will result are sad stick figures, barren trees and homeless puppies.

I write and nothing makes sense and sounds just sooooooo melodramatic and depressing, I want to delete/cross-out/tear into little itty-bitty pieces/trash EVERYTHING.

I guess this is what people call a funk, eh?

I Wanna Hold Your Ha-a-and

[Like many previous posts, the following makes absolutely no sense. At all. You have been forewarned. Continue reading at your own discretion]

Most days I forget that I'm a woman.

Let me clarify for those of you who are perplexed: I forget the "womanly" parts and needs within.

Lately I've stared at my hands. Studied them. Wondered if someone will ever hold them or if they'll be as empty as they are now for all my days.

This sense of longing and wanting I just can't describe pulses through my entire being. These feelings invade and corrupt every part of me like foreigners in a land whose inhabitants and daily goings-on I'd known and expected.

Yet these hands, my hands are the most sorry casualties of this emptiness I feel lately. They feel hollow. Unwanted. Without a home.


They suffer from the seven (plus 23) year itch, I suppose.

Please Clarify.

Over the past several weeks people have mentioned how I have a good head on my shoulders. I have no idea what that means.

Please clarify.

1000 [Moments] of Solitude

It's odd: all morning and afternoon I was in hyperdrive. Spinning like a top and bouncing off walls. I felt like I had the energy of 10 grown men and would have run around the block if I wasn't chained to my desk and the projects that piled up. Now, however, I am in a mellowed, semi-somber place. Beneath the still moon I sit, pangs of unknown longings filling the void. 

These feelings come and go more these days. And I am left at a loss for words. Words won't satiate what it is that I am feeling at this moment.

 

Tonight, I arrived to a dark and still house. With no one in sight, I sat at my out-of-tune piano and let my fingers wander across they keys, playing odd diddies, trying to find my heartsong.  When that wouldn't suffice, I gathered myself and reached for my guitar, playing chords, plucking my way through melancholy tunes. Unfilled and realizing  its dire need of restringing, I reluctantly put it down. Its dampened voice can't quite project what I need it to say anyhow. There seem to be no words for the longing I feel inside.

I am still, yet restless tonight.  I feel as if plunging into the depths of the ocean will release me from this, whatever it is that feels like a boulder resting on my heart. It is bittersweet in my mouth.  I want it to go away and leave me in peace, but it is familiar in it's ambiguity.

A long night awaits me, I guess.

 

Daft Drafts

I wonder how far, how "open", I'll make myself to you here on this blog. I write, but get scared/nervous/self-conscious... so, I save some posts as "drafts" like the hoarder I am.

Here in my posts they (these weepy-eyed things) are safe. Protected. Cared for and loved like baby birds who've lost their homes. Some may find themselves out and about with their big brother blogs, but some, the weepiest ones will have to come to terms with the fact that they may never see the light of day. They'll sit in their idle state, waiting for me to look back on them again or to forget about altogether.

Anywhere But Here

I have found myself hesitating to speak and write lately. To let you into my life, into this turmoil. I want to speak the truth, but right now, it ain't so pretty. More like a steamroller running off its tracks, careening into piles of rubble.

I cannot write... literally. I've never really thought of myself as a good writer, but at least my earlier posts were easy to follow (get through), "poignant" or witty. Lately, however, they seem to be a jumble of words - prickly and erratically pouring out like lumpy curds of rotten milk down the drain.

And oddly, the lack of comments on my posts leaves me wondering if people have tuned out because I've depressed them so. If they've found better places to go. Sites that make them laugh or take them on the Funship cruise of life.

This is my life, folks. I'm sorry if it bothers you or dampens your day, but here it is. It's not been pockets of posies, I'm afraid. Just coals. Fistfuls of coals that I'm hoping/praying/waiting to become diamonds in due time.

For now, this is it. Do with it(me/this blog) as you will.

Early Christmas Present?

I would be ever so grateful if someone would get me one of these for Christmas.

How Does Your Garden Grow?

In case you haven't noticed, I'm going through a pruning process.



It hurts. The wounds from the shears are still exposed. I feel stubbly and ugly and naked. A tree with no leaves. Deformed.

I don't like it one bit.

Where Do We Go From Here?

It's Sunday. I'm at home waiting for someone (Uncle?) to come and help me jump poor Dino.


Out of the corner of my eye I noticed an old note a friend had once written me a few years back. Realizing how so much has happened since he penned that note to me, I am at a loss for words now. Nostalgia sets in as I remember how close we once were, and how much things have changed. Once like siblings, we're like acquaintances now, just that far from being strangers.

This seems to be a pattern in my life: people coming and going. (Or maybe it's just me?)

Years have passed. Everyone busies themselves with "living." Slowly we tune each other out - draining the life out of our relationships 'til they (we) are unrecognizable to each other. Ships passing in the fog in our private little worlds. Physically near, but oceans apart. Alone even when we are together.



If I am sentimental about anything, it's about the times I spend with the people I (wish to) hold dear. No matter what those tests say, I express and receive love through spending time with each other. But, it's growing evermore difficult now since I left my old church. Though I never quite fit in there and no one really understood (or wanted to understand) me, and though I was often made to feel like the constant downer with my idealism, it was familiar.

I worry what will happen in the coming months. Will I have to file away most of these relationships when I move, only to pull them out like old photos on rainy days?

If I am brutally honest with myself (and with you), I want to matter. I need to matter. I need to know that there is some secured place in your heart for me, a space devoted solely to me (us).

Maybe it's self-centered/selfish of me to want to matter, to be missed and wanted? Maybe it's self-consciousness and fear of being left out? Maybe these fears have made me too cautious and apprehensive in being more available for/to you? With so many people coming and going, is it any wonder why I pull away? (Yes, I know... "That's no excuse, Annie!")

I have no idea.

All I know is that I miss you. All of you. I miss the sound of your voice. I miss the echo of your laughter.

I miss you.

And, sometimes, I just wish things were as we once knew them... Even if it was dysfunctional at best, it has to be better than silence and chance encounters, right?

Oy!

This is me today...I feel like my forehead will split in half and my tiny little brain will come oozing out from under my eyelids.

She Hulk and the Pretzel Gal

I feel like a pretzel again. The day was quiet for the most part 'til about 2 o' clock, when hell broke loose. Again. Having worked here for over a year and a half now, and watching all the moronic activity that goes on constantly, you'd think this crap wouldn't phase me anymore. But, it does.

I am so tired of this. This constant cycle of unproductivity that stems from an inability to learn from past mistakes. This thinking that "we" are above reproach and can smile and lie "our" way out of things. I'm pretty sure there's a proverb somewhere that says something like "a fool is one who refuses to learn from his mistakes."




Last night while enjoying dinner and a show with some liberti folk, my friend Arlene and I started to talk about life, particularly my work life. I shocked her with my mean-spiritedness, something I can't quite remember if I was born with or if it's grown on me, like putrid, rotting fungus this past year and a half working here. I laughed it off in hopes of buffering some of the shock I had instilled. But at the end of the day, I felt awkward. Ashamed. Uncomfortable. Unhinged (again).

I can be two-faced. The definition of polar opposites. None of you know this about me because I can hide it pretty well... most of the time. (I think?)

I can turn on a dime when provoked. And, if you watch close I bet you can see the change: I'll shut down, not speak a word, fold into myself and skulk about as if under a storm cloud, waiting hopelessly for the ugliness in me to pass. I'll be electrified with rage. A wall of ice and jagged rock will form and there is nothing that can be done, but stand back and wait for it to pass or watch for the train wreck that will undoubtedly take place. It's uncontrolable.

I wish I was more patient, more understanding, more compassionate, but I am not. I am none of those things.

If I've tarnished the image you had of me, of this funny, jovial, happy-go-lucky gal, please accept my apologies. You see, if you look really, really close you can see the ugly, monster within. All the cover-up and concealer in the world can't hide that.

I just hope and pray that the fires of Christ's redemptive work will destroy all of me, the "good" and the bad. It's just so obvious that without it, I'm a hopeless, raging mess.