Prompt Pages

Posts written in response to the Daily Prompt from The Daily Posts.

Prompt Page 004: Everyone’s Talking About It

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Prompt by The Learning Network to combat WordPress.

 

Today’s Topic:
How much do I gossip?

 

How much time do I spend every day gossiping, or listening to gossip – whether in person or online?

This makes me wonder and question the morality of my blog. Not that I’m going to stop, but, I mean, I am reporting the information and behavior of other peoples lives as they happen to cross over mine… Which technically fulfills that definition….

 

Hmmm….

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I really don’t like the idea that I gossip. I don’t like the way the word feels mostly because every time the word gossip is used it’s in conjunction with spreading rumors or lies, which I do my best not to do. I blog to archive my life, and since I don’t live in a bubble, alone, other people are part of my daily story.

 

I don’t report about their personal life. I may mention someone having a hard time. I may give information that has already been made public, but I don’t divulge secrets, and I don’t lie, all of which I feel go hand in hand with the word gossip.

 

Maybe I need to expand my vocabulary and find another word…

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I guess the difference between gossiping and blogging is in the focus. With my blog I am focusing on myself, with gossip the focus is on other people. Ok. I’m more ok with this distinction. And now that I have an understanding of what I do and do not do I can go back to the question.

 

 

I don’t gossip. I blog. I spend as little time as possible listening to or reading gossip. I try to read articles from verified sources because I dislike having to dig and fact check information. I want to trust the information I’m receiving. If I can’t trust it I’m not going to waste my time.

 

Even at work, while in the break room or interacting with co-workers on campus, if someone starts “gossiping” I listen with a grain of salt. I will take in the information, maybe even log it away for later use. But I’m not going to blindly accept that information. If it is interesting or important enough I may do my own research into the matter. I may send an email, inquire as I see the person the “gossip” concerns. But I’m not going to indulge it. I will make small comments, or depending on what the matter is, I may defend the other person saying I doubt that is what happened, or that I would rather hear their side of the story.

 

That normally brings people up short and kills the conversation. Yeah… nothing like moral high ground to make people feel small for talking behind people’s backs… maybe that’s why I don’t get invited to go out with people for drinks very often… The introvert in me is ok with that. I’m pretty sure I’m not missing much, and I have cross stitching I would rather do anyway than get smash faced and trash talk people.

 

Do I think gossiping is dangerous?

Yes. 100% yes. I can think of all the times that people talked about me behind my back in middle and high school and the hateful comments they would say. I can remember how that made me feel.

 

I can remember working at the Citadel and having my co-works think that I was cheating on my boyfriend, but rather than talk to me about what was going on they decided to gossip and speculate amongst themselves. At the time I felt betrayed. If they were my friends why didn’t they talk to me? Why didn’t they ask me to explain what was going on? Why did they think something so terrible of me? What had I done to show that was in my character?

 

I think of the online bullying that drives youth to commit suicide because of the terrible, awful things people say, the rumors and lies that get spread like wildfire.

 

It is NEVER ok to tear someone down. It’s NEVER ok to spread lies or rumors. It’s NEVER ok to play with another person’s emotions.

 

If you don’t want it done to you, don’t do it to someone else.

 

Do I think I could refrain from gossip for an entire day?

I think I could do a pretty good job of not letting it affect me. But there’s so much BS online with Facebook and Twitter and all of the social media. Even the news. There’s so much garbage out there that I don’t think I could avoid it entirely even if my life depended on it, short of living alone in the middle of nowhere, and that’s sort of sad to realize.

 

What are some of the consequences of gossip I have observed in my own life?

Lowered self-esteem. Self hate. Confidence issues. Trust issues. Depression. Anxiety. And that’s just in my own personal life.

 

I like to think that I have overcome a lot of these things. I like to think that I have grown and healed from my time as a frail, susceptible young girl, and that I did well by simply surviving, much less becoming the confident* (I retain the right to still complain about being insecure / unconfident in future posts) women I am today.

 

I hate knowing that there are people out there who still struggle with these things. I hate knowing there are other young girls out there who feel out of place, unloved, unvalued, unworthy, simply because the “cool” girl didn’t like the color of someone’s shirt.

 

I think gossip stems from an internal pain. The person gossiping is jealous, insecure, or unworthy feeling. They need to make themselves feel better by dragging someone else down. They need to make themselves seem important by having information, even if it is false. They need to tarnish someone else so what they have seems good enough.

 

Some people just like being jerks.

 

One of the best things I have done for myself is letting go of the need for outside approval. If people want to gossip about me, fine. If people want to blindly believe in misinformation about me rather than asking me directly for clarification or facts, fine.

 

I’m cool with that. People are allowed to make their own choices and decisions. Just like I am allowed to make my own.

 

I choose to not worry about it any more. I choose to be ok with myself. I wish I had made this choice when I was younger. I wish I had had the confidence in myself, the inner strength needed to make that choice because I can’t image where I would be now, how different my experiences would have been. I wish I had realized sooner that I was better than the gossip I heard and perpetuated within myself for years.

 

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Prompt Page 003: Generosity Ninjas

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Prompt by The Learning Network to combat WordPress.

 

Today’s Topic:
When was the last time I did
something nice for a stranger?

 

I almost didn’t do this prompt since it seemed so closely related to the other prompts I have written for these past few days. After reading the page though and looking at the questions at the end, I decided that I actually still have a few things to say on the topic.

 

Have I ever been part of a “drive-through generosity” chain or something like it? If so, how did I react?

 

I’ve never been part of one actually. I’ve never had it happen to me, and even though I have thought about it, I have never done it for someone else. I feel like a bit of a hypocrite at the moment with how much I have talked about helping others and doing the right thing and then saying that I blatantly haven’t done this particular type of kind act.

 

Sometimes there are financial reasons behind my choice. There have been times where I shouldn’t have ben buying food for myself because money was so tight, much less trying to cover someone else. Other times I just don’t do it. I don’t have a reason other than because it’s my money. Because it feels lame, cheap, hollow. It feels thoughtless.

 

Being kind in a drive-through feels robotic to me, like I’m part of some sort of conveyer belt system, which doesn’t feel good, so I don’t do it. And I know that sounds like a horribly selfish answer, but that’s how I feel.

 

Yes. Most of the stuff I do I try to do behind the scenes. Like when I got the cards for Donna and Carol. I waited until after they had left for the day to put the cards in their “In” trays. I wanted them to get the cards when I wasn’t there so they wouldn’t have feelings of obligation. I didn’t want to stand around while they read my message of thanks.

 

I wanted them to know that while they are working, all alone behind their computer desks, that people still notice their hard work and still appreciated them. I didn’t want them to say thank you to me. That wasn’t the point of the card. It was to give them something physical, something they could look at on a rough day, and remember that it’s not pointless. People do appreciate them.

 

When I get a server who seems to be having a crap day I leave a small note on my receipt saying I hope things get better for them. I normally leave a better than average tip as well even if my service was shit. We’ve all had crap days, and as an introvert I couldn’t image what it would be like to be a server, trapped around tons of people, most of them probably ungrateful, with no way to escape and recover like I would need to. What if they’re having family issues? Relationship issues? Financial issues?

 

What if they’re stressing over how to put gas in the car so they can make it to work the next day? How is my stiffing them for “bad service” going to make their day any better? Maybe all they need is a reminder that it will be ok. That things work out.

 

When I was driving back home for Thanksgiving I had breakfast at a Waffle House. I felt bad about it. I even told my mom while I was on the phone with her before leaving the hotel how I didn’t like how I was going to be “one of those people”. I was going to be part of the reason those people weren’t at home with their own families, sleeping in under the warm covers.

 

I was so hungry though that I went anyway, and, as can be expected, my server wasn’t in the best of moods. I left her a $20 tip on a $10 meal. I let all of the people there know that I appreciated that they were open and that I hoped they were able to enjoy the rest of their day.

 

I’m noticing that a lot of my actions are money related, but not all of them are.

 

I put up shopping carts at the grocery store when people leave them out in the parking lot. It drives me crazy when people do that. How hard is it to walk it back up to the store, or put it in one of the little cart return spots? How lazy and inconsiderate can you be?

 

My faith in humanity may or may not hinge on shopping carts… >.>;

 

I may not go through the whole parking lot putting up all of the carts, but I’ve had people pull me away from the task after three or four, saying that someone else is paid to do that. Yeah, they are paid to do that, but you know what? They could do something more constructive with their time if people didn’t act like lazy children who can’t pick up after themselves. I’m pretty sure that was something taught to us before kindergarden. If you use it, put it back where it belongs. /end rage

 

I like to think that even if I can’t change the behavior and thoughtlessness of others that at least there three carts that someone isn’t having to mentally bitch about taking care of. It might not be a big deal. It might not even be noticeable. But I know that I did it. And it makes me feel like I have done something to help someone else.

 

Do I agree with Ms. Murphy’s idea that paying it forward is a response to all the bad things that happen in the world?

 

In a way yes. I think for some people it genuinely is an act of kindness. For other’s I think it is to be part of a trend. To have “bragging” rights, in a way. They were part of something “good” and they can tell their friends about it and their friends can think they’re awesome and kind and generous. I think for some people it’s more about praise than being kind and that bothers me. I don’t like the idea of being part of a trend and having that type of stigma applied to me. It’s not a good feeling.

 

Do I think it is effective? Why or why not?

As far as paying it forward in a drive through, I honestly can’t say. I’ve never been part of it, but I do think random acts of kindness are effective in helping to make the world better. I know how I feel when something kind is done for me, and it’s a good feeling. Making others feel good and worthwhile isn’t a bad thing in my book. If we want a more loving, compassionate world we need to put in the time and effort to make it so. The only thing evil needs in order to triumph is for good men to do nothing I believe is how the quote goes.

 

Why do I think generosity like this in drive-through lanes has been such a phenomenon, but hasn’t seemed to have happened in restaurants as much?

 

Oh, man. That’s a good question and one I actually hadn’t thought of.

 

I think drive-throughs are a lot like the Internet. It’s fast and anonymous. You’re a generosity ninja. There’s no real personal interaction, not even with the cashier. You’re gone before you know it. It’s also relatively cheap.

 

With restaurants you’re sitting at your table. You’re chatting with your server. There’s the chance that the people you pay for will find out and come thank you and then you’ll be trapped having to assure them that it was nothing. That there’s no need for them to do something in return.

 

I think paying in a restaurant is “riskier” and that’s why people don’t do it as much.

 

How can I pay it forward?

I think I do a pretty good job, though there is always room for improvement. I don’t think I will become part of the trend for paying it forward in drive-throughs, and while at first I felt bad about that, I no longer do.

 

I would rather raise money for Mellie and her family, who I’ll never see. I would rather put carts away, or pick up trash on the ground. I feel like those actions actually do something, and that makes me feel good. I want to feel like I make a difference, and without that feeling the actions feel hallow.

I may not do everything, but I do a lot of things, and I think that counts towards something.

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Prompt Page 002: Helping Hand

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Prompt by The Learning Network to combat WordPress.

 

Today’s Topic:
Would I help an injured Stranger?

 

What do I think I would do in a similar situation?

I want to say that yes, yes I would help, but I honestly don’t know.

 

I hold the door open for people if I see them struggling. Like when I was at the bike store being checked out. An elderly man came in with a bike, trying to get it through the door, which wouldn’t stay open, along with himself, something I had struggled to do myself only a few minutes before.

 

Instead of letting him struggle ungracefully like I had, I walked away from my transaction and held the door for him. He gave a small thank you, I went back to my spot and that was that.

 

It didn’t seem like a lot to me. It wasn’t a lot of effort. It was a simple problem.

 

But when I see cars on the side of the road, hazards flashing, I don’t stop to make sure they’re ok like people have done for me in the past. When my Buick stalled and then refused to turn back on while I was driving to pick up RB from work one day I had two different cars stop and ask if I was alright even though I had already called and arranged for someone to help me.

 

That made me feel warm and cared for and like there were good people in the world even though countless other cars passed by.

 

I’ve never stopped for someone else. I’ve never been considerate like that for another person, making sure they had a charged cell phone and were able to reach someone who could help them.

 

Would I help someone bleeding out on a street in the middle of New York? I want to say yes, that I would care about my fellow human enough to do that. But what if I didn’t see the blood? What if, like everyone else, I thought it was just a druken homeless man in the street?

 

Would I keep walking? Leave the issue for someone else? Would I stop, kneel down to check on him, and upon seeing the blood call for help?

 

I don’t know. And I hate that answer. If I look at my history, my past experiences, I am forced to admit that like many other people, if I didn’t see anything overtly wrong, I would most likely keep going.

 

I would assume that he was “fine”, just drunk, and keep going.

 

One time when I was taking Zane to work we saw a homeless man on the sidewalk. Most likely pan handling because that’s a major thing here in Orlando. It’s why I so very rarely give people any sort of money in situations like that, because you can never tell if they’re just scamming you.

 

As we were driving through the intersection a teenager jumped out of a car, ran back to the older man, punched him until he was on the ground then ran back to the car and drove a way. Right in front of Zane and me. We saw the whole thing.

 

We couldn’t stop in the middle of the intersection so we drove through and pulled into the gas station cross the street. The other car and already drove away and there was no way we could have gotten the license plate, but I was in the middle of fumbling for my phone, my hands shaking because of the adrenaline before Zane put his hands over mine.

 

Another car had stopped, one that hasn’t been in the middle of the road. The people had gotten out and were helping the man stand. The driver was on his phone.

 

I didn’t call 911. I didn’t call the police. There was nothing more I could do that the other people weren’t already doing. And still I wonder if there was something I could have, should have, done.

 

I’ve bought soup for homeless people outside of gas stations before. I have given money to people before, and I do small little things now and again.

 

But there are times where I question if I would really help when it mattered, when it counted.

 

Why do I think people hesitated to help Mr. Tale-Yax?

I think we hesitate to help others because we worry. What will happen if we help? What risk is there to us? Is it worth the risk?

 

A lot of the time I think we rationalize it out. It’s not our problem. They got themselves into that mess, let them get themselves out. We have enough stress in our lives without taking on someone else’s issues.

 

It’s easier, simpler, to stay wrapped up in our own worlds. It’s easier to be distinct and less empathetic. In a way it’s survival instinct. It’s safer to avoid whatever put the other person in that situation, or to assume that they themselves are not a threat.

 

I don’t like acknowledging that trait within myself, within others, but it’s there. And I feel that is why most people don’t help others, even when it is obvious that something is wrong.

 

Do I think people should try to help strangers in distress?

Yes. I do. I think about, “If I were in that situation, would I want someone to help me?”

 

Yes. I would. I would want someone to call the police if I was attacked on the street. I would want someone to try to help me if I were getting stabbed. I would want someone to care for me even though they don’t know who I am.

 

I would like for someone to think that my life is important and worth protecting simply for the fact that I exist, because I’m breathing.

 

I guess if I want people to do that for me I should try to do that more for others.

 

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Prompt Page 001: A Question of Ethics

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Prompt by The Learning Network to combat WordPress.

Today’s Topic:
What ethical dilemmas have I faced?

Oh man. This one is going to make me think… What have I faced?

 

It’s hard to say. I don’t really think of things in the terms of ethics to be honest. I think of my choices from a very selfish stand point. Do I think this action is right or wrong? Do I think it is morally right?

 

Ethics, to me, more often refers to groups. What do others believe to be right?

 

And I think this is why ethics is such a tricky subject. What is right in one culture or social circle can be a huge taboo in another. Ethics can be extremely relative based on the group you’re surrounded by and what you are brought up believing to be “right” or “wrong”. Ethics, in some regards, are just personal opinions. So, for me, the biggest concern is analyzing the situation from a non-emotional stand point.

 

What are the facts? What does the other person / party feel? What do I feel? What do we want the outcome to be? And ultimately, what am I comfortable with doing? What could I live with if I were to die tomorrow?

 

What I feel is right or wrong can differ based on a situation. There’s a lot of factors to be considered.

 

An example of this fluctuation can be seen through the inconsequential action of my wearing sandals to work every once in a while.

 

Base Case: It’s something that I know goes completely against dress code. Ethically, it is wrong of me to break the rules.

 

Additional information: Ethically it is wrong to not pay me for the overtime that I work. Or to make promises and then not deliver on them.

 

Conclusion: If I’m going to get backstabbed I’m going to be comfortable while it happens.

 

Ethically, we’re both wrong. Some people feel that it doesn’t matter if I feel wronged. My choice is still wrong and so ethically I’m still damned to the pits of hell. That might be a bit extreme… but you get the point. Two wrongs don’t make a right, so my thought process is flawed in their eyes.

 

Personally, I feel justified and don’t care. Is that shallow of me? Low? Should I take the higher ground and still wear normal shoes? Maybe. And most of the time I do. I’m ok with the choices I make and how it reflects on my work ethic. I’m still showing up on time for work, regardless of the shoes I wear. I’m not rocking the boat. At least not too much. And I still do more than what’s required from my job.

 

Ethically, I think my choice to break the rules a bit isn’t all that awful.

 

I’ve had people ask me to write them letters of recommendation before, and that has led to dilemmas for me. Some of these people I didn’t feel had good work ethic, or I had never actually worked on a project with them. I couldn’t give them a good review about their work and feel like I was telling the truth at the same time, even though they were great people.

 

My work around?

 

A glowing review about their personality, because I honestly felt like they were super awesome to be around.

 

Ethically, morally, I’m not going to lie. So anything that feels untrue to me is a no-go. Flat out. I don’t compromise on my honesty. No half-truths. No white lies. In my head, lying is wrong, even if the truth is uncomfortable, inconvenient, or, in some cases, painful.

 

Do you support your friend in their choice to be a surrogate mother while supporting your other friend in their choice to have an abortion? Yeah… that’s happened to me. Do you encourage your friend to reach out to their estranged parents while understanding that your other friend is justified in loathing their parents and respect their wishes to remain distant and leave burnt bridges alone?

 

Ethics can be a super touchy, sensitive, vulnerable subject. I try my best to listen to my inner voice. I try my best to actually listen to the people around me and to understand the situation to the fullest. What are their ethics? What are their morals and priorities? And, in the end, I make the choice that I feel I will be ok with.

 

Not everyone is going to agree with my choices. That’s a fact. Point blank, someone is always going to disagree or feel I could have done something better.  If I can’t please everyone then the very least I can do is please myself. That way I know at the very minimum at least one person will come out of it happy.

 

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Prompt Page 000: Learning to Help

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It’s been a while since I wrote a prompt page. I’m still disenchanted with the prompts offered by WordPress. Sad but true. I miss being able to write though. I miss having something that makes me stop and actually think about an area of my life, or hypothesize about what I would do in a situation.

 

Well I might not be able to do anything about WordPress prompts sucking, but I can go out and find my own prompts, and so that’s what I did.

 

The Learning Network has a page with 500 Prompts for Narrative and Personal Writing, and I intend to go through most of them, at least for now. I believe I’m going to start with the Morality and Religion section because I find it interesting.

 

Today’s Topic: How Do You Help?

 

What have I done in the past to help others?

Lots of things. So many things. Countless things. Things that I remember and things I have forgotten. I’m normally there for emotional support. I listen. I empathize. I’m the free therapy that everyone looks for but never realizes that they have. I’m the “go to” person because if you need help, and I consider you my friend, there’s literally nothing I wouldn’t do.

 

One of the things that sticks out as an example of this is the tirade relationship I had with Warren #2 and Taya. It was the first time I had broken up with Warren. Things weren’t working out. I was miserable, it was affecting my school, it wasn’t getting better and nothing I was doing was helping to fix the issue. He was still unemployed and sitting and home on his computer all day playing World of Warcraft.

 

I kicked him out of my apartment because I was enabling him, and felt he needed to figure out his life. I wasn’t helping him be a better person. If anything, I was feeding into his directionless-ness.

 

I ended up finding one of his shirts mixed into my laundry. I felt like I had to return it because it wasn’t mine. Warren and moved in with two of my friends, so I knew where he was at. I went to the apartment, hoping that he wouldn’t be there, or would still be asleep since it was so early in the morning. I was hoping Ryan would answer the door and it could be a super quick exchange.

 

Instead Warren answered. It led to a really long conversation. He had already found another girl. Two weeks? Maybe one? He had met her at a party. No surprise there. We ended up trying to do a closed polyamerous relationship. It didn’t work, but Taya and I became close for a while.

 

She ended up becoming pregnant.

 

It was a shock for her and we talked about it alone a lot. She didn’t know what to do. She had a lot of health issues that would have made the pregnancy really risky for her and the baby. Warren wasn’t the best father figure. It was an accident and now she was faced with the reality of her actions.

 

After a lot of talking her choice was to have an abortion. For anyone who has read a lot of my earlier stuff you may know that that choice was hard for me to hear. Potentially being infertile myself, my older brother being a “mistake”, on top with the fact that I feel you have to own up to your actions… Personally, for me, it wouldn’t have been an option.

 

But it wasn’t, isn’t, my life. It was Taya’s, and this was what she thought would be the right choice. Not just for her. But for everyone involved, including the potential child she wouldn’t be able to provide properly for.

 

She wasn’t able to afford the abortion. And so now that the choice about “what to do” had been made it became a question of how? Trading one stress for another, one just as daunting and impossible when both people involved are unemployed.

 

I paid for it.

 

I was the one who drove her to the clinic and sat with her while people outside called her a baby killer and slut shamed her and told her what a horrible person she was. I’m the one who went out and got us McDonalds because we had to wait for four hours for her to be seen. I drove her home while she cried in the back seat of my car, apologizing, for what I’m not sure. I can only imagine what was going through her head.

 

I’m the one who brought her home and tucked her into bed, then went to the store to get her a stuffed animal, a wolf like one she had been talking about, and brought it back to her so she wouldn’t have to sleep alone.

 

Warren didn’t do any of that. Taya even paid me back eventually for half of the cost. Warren never did.

 

It wasn’t my mistake. It wasn’t the choice I agreed with. And it certainly wasn’t my obligation to make any of it right. But I cared for Taya, and I wanted to help her, support her, because we all make mistakes and we all have to figure out how we move forward from them.

 

What do I do now to help others?

Same old same old? I haven’t changed. I still do my best to remember whenever anyone does something to help me.

 

Donna getting the fridge approved for the break room. Alex giving me his furniture before he moved. Zane squeezing the lime juice from the limes. RB listening to me complain about my relationship and giving me advice. Terri encouraging me while we’re training. Clavan being understanding about the work situation.

 

I have so many people in my life who are kind to me, who do things for me because they care and are good people. I do what I can, when I can, to try to repay them for their time and effort. Sometimes it’s small. A quick email, a cross stitch. Other times it’s a $200 check tucked away into a Christmas card. It all depends.

 

How does helping others affect me?

Helping others gives me a sense of purpose. I have made someone’s life easier. I have improved their situation, their mental state. I have made life seem less shitty and a little more worth living. It’s a good feeling. It’s amazing because normally, when I get their message about “You completely made my day,” I’m going through my own downhill slide. Something negative has happened to me. A crap day, an argument, self-doubt, whatever.

 

But then I get this message from someone I care about telling me how much they appreciate me and how grateful they are that our paths crossed. When someone says thank you to me it makes me feel like I’m doing something right, even if everything else feels wrong. It makes me feel like a good person when I begin to doubt if I really am one.

 

Helping others helps myself. It makes me realize there’s more to life than money or a paycheck or work or awards and goals and bar charts and performance records. There’s an important element missing from the periodic table. One that we’re never really taught in school.

 

It’s the human element, and we need more of that in our lives I think.

 

What tips do I have for helping others?

Do more. Talk less.

 

Maybe that’s a little blunt, borderline rude, but that’s how I feel.

 

We’re all quick to say things. “Oh, let me know if you need anything,” or, “I’ll be there for you.”

 

But very rarely do people actually pull through, and sometimes the hardest thing in the world is to ask for help. We all talk about how we’ve lost faith in humanity and the world sucks and there’s so much violence and bad stuff going on…

 

Fight that.

 

Be a force of good. Actually go out and do something for someone else. Without being asked. Pay it forward at the drive thru. Give your boss or employee a card saying that you appreciate their work. Randomly give your significant other a hug or a kiss on the forehead and let them know they matter. Do the laundry if that’s normally not your chore. Clean out the car.

 

Kindness and helping doesn’t have to cost money. It doesn’t have to be a huge life-changing task. Something as simple as a kind word, a small loving touch can help people feel more real, more human, more worthwhile.

 

Love the people around you. That’s my advice.

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Prompt Page 0058: Precious Possession

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So I’m pretty tired of the Daily Prompt being a waste of time. I check it almost every day, and almost every day I’m disappointed because of how lame and pointless I feel the writing would be. I mean, if I’m going to procrastinate by writing then I want it to at least be something worthwhile and engaging for me. Thought provoking… something…

So today I did a Google search for ‘writing prompt’ and found this site.

Over 500 prompts…

And they’re not just prompts. They have articles, essays, and studies attached to them. There are also additional questions you can answer in relation to the articles or alternative lines of thinking for the prompt. It seems pretty nifty.

I’m sure not all of the prompts are going to be awesome. But I’m going to go through them, one day at a time.

So, the first prompt…

What was your most
precious childhood possession?

The article attached to this prompt was pretty interesting for me since it has to do with psychology and how children learn to cope with separation from their parents.

It was fascinating to realize that a lot of people actually still do this very thing; take comfort in some object to deal with separation, change, or stressful situations. I know at least I am guilty of it, but I’ll touch on that later.

My favorite possession of all time from my childhood is a killer whale stuffed animal that I named Willy after the movie Free Willy.

I have always been fascinated by whales, dolphins, and porpoises, which are all really from the same order of Cetacea (for more nerdy information go here). And as a kid I made my parents watch Free Willy until I’m sure they wanted to stab there eyes out.

My dream was to go to Sea World so I could touch a killer whale because I thought they were the coolest things of the face of the planet. And my stuff whale was with me for every trip I took, every time I stayed away from home, every doctor’s appointment I had…

He was my battle buddy. Every time I cried he was there for me to hold on to.

And I’m not ashamed to say that I still have him. He’s with a few other stuffed animals that I have kept and gathered over the years. He’s super dirty. You would think his white belly was naturally an icky grayish color instead of white. But I love him, and I’ll never get rid of him because even though I can’t remember all of the times he was there for me, I know that he was, and that he helped me get through a lot of things, including my parents divorce.

Now that I’m older I have sort of transitioned from Willy to my purple sheet. It’s a king sized sheet that I found at Goodwill shortly after moving to Florida. I loved the color, and there was just something about it that made me think, “I have to have this.”

It’s become a bit of a security blank for me. Whenever I have a super rough day, or get depressed I crawl under my sheet, or wrap myself up in it all burrito style and hide in the darkness for a little while until I’ve had enough alone time to decompress.

I would take the sheet with me to school while I was working 16 hours a day during finals and just sort of sit with it over my head. I still do that sometimes when I’m gaming. No reason other than because I want to.

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I have been in every single one of these positions…

Whenever Zane and I are having a rough conversation I’ll hold on to my sheet, or play with a corner of it so I can have a part of it in my hands like a tether to reality.

While half my brain is terrified that things are falling apart and that I’ve made an awful choice, and I’ll never learn from my mistakes, and fire and brimstone from the sky, another part of my brain is soothed by the color, by the texture, by the familiar scent of lavender. It’s comforting and a reminder that I’ve had hard times before and that I survived them, and that even though what I’m going through is hard, I’ll survive it, too.

I actually was forced to watch the original Producers so I could understand the reference Zane kept making to my “blue blankie”. Because clearly purple is not blue…

I have several other ‘traditional objects’. One is a ribbon of sweetgrass worked into the shape of a flower that my younger brother made for me. It’s one of the few possessions I have from him.

Another is my bandana that I always wear. Purple, of course. It reminds me to think of myself, to take care of myself and to think about my goals, needs, and priorities, before focusing on other people.

I guess it seems sort of odd to need a reminder of yourself, but as an INFJ it is so easy for me to forget that I’m important, too. When ever I start feeling overwhelmed I’ll run my hand over it as if I’m brushing my hair back, and feeling the material, knowing that it’s there, comforts me. It gives me the strength to stand up for myself, when sometimes it seems like backing down would be the easier option. The safer option. The path of least resistance.

All of my workouts, my bandana has been there. All of the sweat and tears. All of the self doubt that played through my head. All of the triumph and accomplishment I felt when I beat my best time on something. Or lifted another rep. Or spun another mile. It reminds me that hard work is worth it, and that even if you don’t see the results right away, that time and dedication is all you need to reach what you want.

It’s my reminder that the only different between a dream and reality is hard work. It reminds me that my dreams are real. That’s it’s ok that I live in my own little world.

I refuse to leave home without wearing it. Like, hardcore, will not walk out the door, will punch people in the face if I can’t take it with me. And there is no substitute. It has to be the one true bandana or I’m not budging. It’s my new battle buddy and I can’t leave home without it.

Every card my mom has ever sent me since I left home… I normally have them taped up on the wall around my corkboard, but since I keep having to move around so much I haven’t had them up in a while. I’ve been meaning to do that since moving in with Zane. Maybe I’ll actually get around to it this weekend since I realize now that I have no visual reminder of my mom in my room at the moment. And I’m not ok with that.

My traditional objects may be really silly to someone else. Childish, cheesy, maybe even ridiculously lame. And I admit that seemingly trivial objects hold an insane amount of sentimental value for me. I about flipped shit when Shadow started trying to bite on my sweetgrass flower. I seriously considered changing the menu that night from chicken to Chinese.

It’s just a piece of dead grass part of my brain says. But it’s a sign of love and affection from my brother, and it’s important to me, and part of me will be crushed if anything happened to it. I need it with me, in my safe space, my little dragon den, to remind me that things are ok and that there are people who love me, which is what traditional objects are meant to do.

So yeah, I might be really weird, but I’m ok with that. I’ll just be over here…

by myself…

being awesome and shit. : D

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Prompt Page 0057: Finite Ceatures

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“At what age did you realize you were not immortal?
How did you react to that discovery?”

I guess I have always known. There was never a great epiphany about being mortal and having to align myself with the thought of death.

I can remember one time my family took a trip up to Maryland to visit my great grandmother. I suppose she wasn’t doing too well. I was extremely young, five, maybe six, so the details aren’t all that clear.

I can remember visiting her in the hospital. I remember all of the adults around the bed chatting. Making small talk that didn’t matter, and even then I can remember how I thought it was trivial. They weren’t saying what they were really feeling. Everyone was faking, hiding, and even then I could see it. In the tightness around their eyes, how the smiles didn’t reach their eyes at all.

I suppose the reason this visit sticks out to me so clearly is because that was the only time I can remember my great grandmother. I have no other memory of this person other than seeing her in the hospital bed. I have not emotional connection to her. It is purely biological. It was like visiting a stranger for me. I remember being bored.

I remember her trying to eat pudding by sipping on the end of a spoon as if it were a straw and not understanding why she was doing that. That’s not how spoons worked. I remember watching her and observing how she didn’t seem to be fully there. I think that’s when I realized deterioration was part of life.

Five-year-old-brain: This happens. It is natural. Information absorbed and cataloged away for later use. K. Are there coloring books? Can I go outside? What’s for lunch?

A few weeks later my mom sat my brother and I down in the living room and explained that my great grandmother had died. I remember not really feeling much of anything. I knew she was gone. I remember still thinking of her as a stranger, and that even though I ‘should’ feel something deep, I didn’t. I remember thinking maybe it was for the best, a picture of her sipping at the spoon in my mind. All things must end. Deterioration is natural. Her death was inevitable. Why should there be sadness?

As for my own mortality, as I said, I guess I’ve always known or felt it.

There is a part of me who has always believed that I will die at a fairly young age. At least young for today’s standards. I don’t have a number. It’s not like I can see the future. I don’t know how, why, or when.

It’s just a feeling, like so many other things have been in my life. I don’t have a reason for feeling this way. It’s just something that I have always felt. Something that has always been there, like having brown hair, or blue eyes. It’s has always been a part of me, this feeling.

I don’t think I will out live my mom. And while most people will read that and think I’m weird, depressed, morbid, mentally messed up in some way, whaterver, I accept it and move on with my day, giving it no more thought than breathing, unless, that is, there happens to be a prompt that I feel inclined to write about.

For me death is part of the cycle, and I want to experience all of it. Even the end. I try to live life fully every day. I try to make the choices that I want, rather than what I feel will make other people happy. It’s my life. It could end at any moment. I want to be happy in the end. At least as happy as I can make myself.

That’s why my job bothers me at the moment. I spend hours agitated and trapped feeling. Hours that I can’t get back. I don’t like that. That doesn’t line up with my priorities. That’s why I’m trying to fix it.

I’m going to die. Everyone, eventually, will die. That’s a fact. Cold, detached logic. Why waste energy feeling bad or sad over something that cannot change?

Instead I choose to invest that energy into living. Experiencing. Tasting. Touching, Smelling. Doing. Being. Feeling. Influencing my sphere to make the world a better place one small ripple at a time.

Eventually the Earth will be swallowed by the sun and everything we are will be reduced back to the nothingness we originated from. We don’t worry about that though. It’s so far in the future it doesn’t matter.

I hardly know what I will be doing, where I will be going, in the next hour, much less in however many years when I die. It is an unknown, yes, but so is tomorrow. So is a million years from now.

We don’t fear Monday morning. We don’t fear waking up to a new day.

Death, for me, is just another part of a journey. A new day. A new chapter. A new adventure which will be whatever it will be. Worrying about it, fearing it, will not change it or make it not happen. Fear of the future will only detract from my now. And even though my now is a little rough, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

I will live life. I will be true to myself. And when I die, whenever that happens to be, I will be happy. That’s enough for me.

Prompt Page 0056: Dear Mom

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“Write a letter to your mom.
Tell her something you’ve always wanted to say, but haven’t been able to. “

Hey mom,

I know we talk all the time, and I know that I’ve had a lot of amazing conversations with you. I know that I dedicated part of my graduation speech to you, and I know that there have been many times where I’ve taken the moment to thank you, for everything.

I feel, legitimately, that if I were to suddenly fall over and die that you would be one of the few people in my life who I would feel I have said everything to.

You know I love you. You know I admire you. You know you’re my best friend, my confidant. I have written my feelings down in Facebook posts on Mother’s day year after year. Every major accomplishment in my life I attribute to your love and support.

That being said, I realized with this prompt that I have never written for you specifically on my blog. That may seem silly to some people. Wouldn’t the words in person, or spoken in front of hundreds of people be more special, more meaningful?

In a way, yes. But this blog is part of me. And you are such a huge part of who I am. You played the biggest role in my life, in shaping me into who I am, and yet I have never taken the time to write to you, to dedicate a page to you, in something that is so important in my life.

It’s so silly and yet I am left feeling awful because I have not done this sooner. Because I didn’t think to do it on my own.

No longer. This is your page, mom. This is a small fraction of everything I am thankful for. This is the barest glimpse of why you are so awesome to me. Why you really are a super hero in my eyes, and why I am the most fortunate person to have you as my parent.

First off, you put up with me and my craziness. All of the relationships I get myself warped up in… you patiently stand by and let me make my own choices, and looking back on it I can only imagine how hard it was for you to let me grow up and learn the hard way. Thank you for letting me experience those lessons. Because of them I was able to find myself. Because of them I know how to stand on my own, and what I am looking for in a partner, and what I expect from myself.

Along the same lines of putting up with me… Remember the time we were at Red Lobster, and I made the lobster dance around on my plate… and then the arm fell off in the middle of the dance and we couldn’t stop laughing? Or when we would go shopping together and I would teasingly walk on the back of your shoes until you turned around and glared at me with one of those “I love you so much I’m going to kill you,” sort of looks? Or when you would say you understood why some animals eat their young? Or how about when I stand behind you when you’re at the computer and start playing with your hair saying, “This gray hair in mine, and this gray hair in mine…”.

You make me smile, and you let me be playful. You give the best hugs ever. Ever ever. Like, in the rest of forever ever. No one can give a mom hug like you.

You know with one word over the phone, hundreds of miles away if something is wrong or not. It’s sometimes sort of annoying and yet amazingly comforting at the same time. It’s like a sixth sense or something. The ‘mom’ sense. I don’t think I could ever hide anything from you. The only way to do it is to not call, and then you know something’s up because I’m avoiding you. There’s just no way to win. XD

You stayed at home and took care of John and I when we lived with dad. We were always doing something. You would read to us, take us to the pool. Girl scouts, boy scouts, baking cookies, cooking dinner. Teaching me to cross stitch, learning sign language. Letting me practice the drums, taking me to marching band practice at 8am on Saturday mornings. Sitting through ALL of my marching band competitions. Supporting me when I wanted to go to Full Sail University even though it was all artys and stuff.

You carried on after dad left, and I won’t even pretend that I know how hard that was. I’m sorry I was so young and that I couldn’t have been more of a friend and support through such a hard time for you. Thank you so much for not giving up. For holding shit together when I’m sure the only thing you wanted to do was break down and give up.

And maybe this part isn’t fair to dad, but thank you for loving me enough to stay. Thank you for being there, for staying there, and for letting me know that no matter what that you cared. That you would always care, and that I was actually important.

Thank you for paying part of my student loans. I haven’t forgotten that I owe you that money, and I promise I’m on the road to being able to pay you back. Thank you for not telling me that I should get a ‘real job’ like so many other people have. I know you’re not thrilled that I’m still at the school, and I know with how much I’ve been complaining about it recently that it must be hard to not tell me to move on, but it means a lot that you haven’t and I appreciate it.

Thank you for sending me cards in the mail as little reminders that you still think of me. Thank you for the phone calls and voice mails when I’m unable to answer. Thank you for forcing me to stay in touch with you instead of drowning myself in work. Thank you for reminding me about what’s important in life.

Thank you for being you and showing me that you’re never too old to change your mind, to learn something new. You went back to school and set yourself on a totally different career path, and even though you think you’re not the most amazing RN in the world, in my mind you’re perfect. You did what you wanted to do, and that’s amazing. That’s an inspiration to me.

I don’t have to have all the answers right now, even though that’s what society makes it seem like. I can figure it out as I go. I can go down a path and then decide that I want something different. I’m allowed to be dynamic rather than static. I’m allowed to change, and you’re the one who showed me that.

You taught me that I’m allowed to feel. You taught me that my emotions are just as valid as everyone else’s. I’m sorry it took me so long to understand that. I’m sure I could have avoided a lot of un-fun situations if I had listened better.

Thank you for listening when I need to ramble through the confusion I feel sometimes.

Thank you for being human, and for showing me that even with flaws someone can be perfect.

You are amazing, and perfect, and the best person I have ever had the privilege of knowing. I am honored to be your daughter. And I wish those words didn’t feel so hallow. They pale in comparison to the emotions I wish I could convey in this writing.

I love you more than I will ever be able to express because of everything you have done and continue to do for me. I love you because of your unconditional acceptance of who I am. Thank you so much, for everything I listed and the millions of things that I didn’t. Thank you for your love and support. Thank you for being you. Thank you for loving me. And thank you, thank you, for being my mom.

I love you uber amounts of much. Forever and always.

Jen

Prompt Page 0055: Memory on the Menu

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“Which good memories are better — the recent and vivid ones, or those that time has covered in a sweet haze?”

Interesting.

I suppose this is another instance where I’m going to be weird and all INFJ like.

Most of the things I remember are hazy to be honest. It’s one of the reasons I write daily, so I can remember most everything that did happen and the order they happened in.

When something is extremely vivid it’s because of the emotions associated with it, and those emotions are so strong and real it’s as if the event is happening all over again. I can remember the texture of the clothing, the smells in the air, the way the sun felt. I can remember the emotions I was picking up from other people.

Remembering things like my graduation is actually sort of hard because not only do I remember the sense of pride and happiness, but I remember the anxiety and fear I felt. I remember the nervousness of giving my graduation speech. It’s mildly frustrating because even just typing about it makes my fingers tremble as if I’m holding the paper in my hands all over again. I can remember being terrified that my cape was going to fall off.

Super embarrassing moments where I wanted to fall of the face of the Earth and die… Yep… like it just happened yesterday. Moments where I received a gift and felt so loved and cared for that I cried… Teary eyed all over again.

For me, those moments exist outside of time. They could have happened yesterday, or back when I as five years old. Yeah, I actually have a few moments from way back then.

So I suppose neither, both, all, none? Memory is a weird thing for me and I don’t know how to explain it better than what I have. I feel my memories, relive them, more than actually remembering them.

Time can wash away a lot of the day to day things for me, but there are certain moments Time will never be able to distort or take away from me.

Prompt Page 0054: Futures Past

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“As a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up? How close or far are you from that vision?”

I honestly did want to be a ballerina when I grew up. Sort of cliché, but there you go.

I liked the idea of being able to dance. I liked the idea of being pretty. I liked the idea of being light and graceful and floating on air and twirling around on my tippy toes.

The reality of it is I liked the idea of being something my dad wanted me to be. He wanted a ballerina, so I wanted to be a ballerina.

I took lessons for a little while. I don’t remember them very much since it was so long ago, so far back in the past.

I remember my dad used to take me to practice.

There is one that I remember clearly. I’ve mentioned it before, in a previous post during the winter I think. It was towards the end of rehearsal. We were all lined up against the bar on one side of the room. I remember the parents were gathering at the other side, coming in through the door to pick us up, but they had to wait because we weren’t done yet.

When we were done I remember everyone running over to their parents. I remember warm smiles and love and warmth.

But I couldn’t find my parents. I couldn’t see them. So I stayed on the other side of the room, alone. Looking. Observing.

It was one of those moments where you have a puzzle piece fall into place. Like there is a physical, auditable click inside of your head. A key part of your very being has just unlocked and you now see the world through completely different eyes, a completely different perspective.

This is how forever will be.

I don’t remember how old I was. I don’t know why I had that thought, or how I even could have understood what it meant. How could I have any concept of forever, or of acceptance in society? How could I have this sense of calm existence, like I was an outsider, a foreigner, and this is how it was meant to be? That I was different, I would always be different, and that ultimately my role in life was to be an observer.

I am so far form being a ballerina that it’s almost laughable. I don’t think that’s a bad thing, though. I think like being a warrior instead. : )