Show Me What I'm Looking For

I can't remember if I've posted under this song title or not... and I'm too lazy to go check... so I'm sorry if I shafted you.

There was an article on MSN that I was just reading about sleep and what it means about you. I was reading the article, and it was like, "if you sleep like a log, you're grateful in real life... if you have restless sleep, you may be overly critical of yourself and anxious in general and at an unusual risk of death..."

Well, dammit. I am THE lightest sleeper in the world. For example, my stereo (when stereos were cool...) would make this whisper-quiet clicking noise before turning on in the morning to play music and wake me up. I always woke up to the click. And I wake up at night trying to solve problems and being really angry that I can't come up with the answer. When I force myself to actually sit up and think about the problem, it usually turns out that there is no answer. Otherwise, I will literally lie in bed for hours, frustrated and half-awake.

But then, the article was like, "If you have really vivid dream recall, you are probably a very creative person in the daytime." Yes! I have vivid dream recall! It felt good knowing that I was creative.

"People in this category are also at a higher risk of schizophrenia."

Oh...

So lemme get this straight, I'm an ungrateful, anxious, perfectionist, schizo who will die an early death?! And don't forget the "creative" part...

Well, come visit me at the mental health facility (but don't procrastinate, 'cuz I might die on you), and you'll probably find me yelling at me for never fully appreciating all the work the orderlies do for me and how if I'm not more grateful, I'll drive them away. But I will paint you a sweet picture... actually, I don't paint.

I went to my grandpa's farm this weekend to do some work up there. If you're picturing me as the hot farm-boy type, you should probably stop right there. I'm not. Wish I were... or that I could find one... or a cowboy... what the hell is wrong with me? But I definitely was not cut out for farm work. Really.

But I was talking to my grandpa, and I learned something about him that I never knew before: he wanted to be a concert pianist. No shit. "I had to be realistic, though; so I stayed here instead of going to music school." I've never even seen my grandpa touch a piano before. And then I started to think about me--did I throw away something that could have been really amazing? But talk about a profession that would drive me to kill myself. I couldn't handle it... no matter what you win or how well you do, you can't ever be perfect, and you can't beat everyone in the world... and nothing is ever good enough, either. But that's the way it has to be. You don't get better by thinking you're "good enough," you know?

Didn't mean to give you an earful. It's a delicate balance, though, and one I couldn't handle. And, to be perfectly honest, it is impossible to pursue all possible courses at once. We trudge ahead and, perhaps with bravado, claim it was the correct path. We can't measure what might have been, but we trust that it pales in comparison to what is.

It's still hard for me to be ok with myself sometimes. I'm grateful for the rational me that forfeited the audition processes and put me in an environment that was maybe a little more nurturing.

And I respect the life my grandpa has had. For one, I'm here. For another, he raised amazing (although some of them turned out Republican--wtf?) kids... his contribution was quiet but miraculous in a way that few people will ever recognize, but that's what makes it beautiful. Leave the stage to someone else, I say.

My dog is asleep on the floor in front of me. She's having a running dream right now. Maybe we can be schizophrenic together.