Thursday Aug 27.2015
I hate change. Yet it seems to just adore me. Can't get enough of me. Do I hate change? I say I hate change, but I seem to invite it in with open arms on a regular basis. If I'm not constantly being challenged I begin to hate everyone and everything. I become the devil. Whiny, discontent, utterly miserable. I feel like you can only be complacent for so long, before you long for more and begin to resent your own happiness, turning it into some close relative of disdain. So then why, when we should most accept it, are we so thrown aback by a shift in life? We get stuck in our happiness, and worry that it can't get any better than this, regardless of the fact that we've become stagnant, and our happiness, uninspiring. But it's safe. We feel secure in our settled happiness. And then comes change to challenge whether we believe we can find that happiness again. We are so afraid to take a chance on chance that we would rather be mediocrely happy than risk discovering a happiness far greater and more promising. Because what if we lose out on both? But if one were to look at their life, does any loss not eventually find some kind of consolation? There will always be periods of time when life feels the need to remind you that you're not invincible, but it usually comes around to assure you you're still just as prone to happiness as you are to heartache. Life has shown me this enough times to know better. To know to embrace change and not fear it. To know that whatever can't be helped is that way for a reason. And even if it isn't, decide that it is, and go with it. I can stomp my foot, aggressively fold my arms, and cry out in a mad temper all I want, but the night is still going to come, and I'm still going to have to go to bed. And you always feel so much better once you're under the covers. Change is as certain as bedtime. Embrace change, Chelsea. I have to keep telling myself. Allow life to show you what it has to offer, even if it's not what you think you need. A friend once told me that people often get confused with what they want and what they need. We often think we need something when we really just want it, and vice versa. Once you discover which is which, life will unfold with such ease. I want to stay in London. I don't need to. Maybe, I need to learn to let go, and go with it-- whatever 'it' may be. Perhaps I need to resign myself to the idea that this really was just an experience, a chapter of my life, a page with a puppy eared corner to allow for a reread one day, ages from now, or even sooner. I mentally flip through the haphazard, metaphorical book that is my life, and see so many moments of happiness similar to this. Where I truly believed life couldn't show me a more perfect existence. Yet, I currently claim to be the absolute happiest I've ever been. So who's to say that years from now I won't look back at this folded corner and think to myself, you really had no idea.
Three months ago, I thought my life was amazing. And now I'm sitting here thinking to myself, you really had no idea. I moved out of my miniature Turkish flat, mostly out of fear that I was unknowingly, and against my will, being thrown into an arranged Turkish marriage by my flatmate's mother, who (plot twist) also became my flatmate shortly after I had moved in. Apparently your mother visiting translates to something completely different in Turkish. Something along the lines of, "My mother is actually moving in with us but I'm not going to tell you because it's more fun that way, and you have such an adorable confused face. No, instead I'm just going to try to sleep with you, and then get mad at you when you're never home and jack up your bills out of spite and embarrassment that you turned down my advances." (I have no evidence to prove the last statement, but I still believe it.) So I moved out. And after several discouraging flat viewings, I found a home to put my heart. A real home. With a back garden, and a piano, and the quaintest little kitchen that I have actually used on more than one occasion-- and for more than just finding a spoon to dip into my peanut butter. I felt like this generation's foreign Goldilocks. Though it took me five tries instead of three (I'm a bit slower than the average bear), I finally found a place that is just right. (Yes, I have lived here for a year and a half and have moved five times. How on Earth can I still say I'm afraid of change…). The man of my dreams has moved in with me from Canada, my gusband (gay husband) and soulmate, Jan. We share a room on the top floor of our cosy house in Clapham South with six other flatmates-- none of which are Turkish, nor want to get in my panties. At least not to my knowledge. I got a job at a cake shop, despite everyone's concern that I'd be fired almost instantly for devouring all the stock. I have yet to do so, but my quest for diabetes and life long obesity has upped it's game. I glaze tarts, whip decorative cream, sprinkle sugar snow, while still pouring pints, and refraining from killing small children-- or like, teaching. Whatever.
Why did you get another job, do you ask? Well, you see, I am currently trying to find any and every way possible to stay in this country. I've become that psycho ex-girlfriend who keeps showing up at your door even though you broke up with her months ago and started seeing a woman named Alice. I still refer to you as my boyfriend and constantly brag to strangers about all the amazing things we have planned together, while you're on the phone to the police requesting my third restraining order. I got the job at the cake shop with the hope that they would potentially sponsor me, and therefor allow me to stay in the UK (this would be the equivalent of sending said non-boyfriend a surprise anniversary singing telegram while watching, gleefully from the bushes a "legal" hundred yards away). They won't sponsor me, so now I just work there to drown my sorrows in Lemon Chiffon cake and Curly Whirly brownies (this is the equivalent to seeing Alice open the door to your romantic gesture instead of your beloved, thus causing your left eye to start twitching uncontrollably and without even realizing you suddenly have a handful of your own hair clenched in your white knuckled fist). And I'm back to square one. No notable, nor viable options on the horizon. Just me, and another five and a half excruciatingly fast moving months, and half a lime cheesecake, alone with my thoughts. Thoughts of change. Do I keep fighting or do I take the hint? Will someone please marry me? I looked into that, it's impossible. Everything feels impossible. Except Zimbabwe. Zimbabwe doesn't seem impossible. I hear they have great weather. And copious amounts of chickens. I like chickens. Fuck. I don't want to live in Zimbabwe. I have the cardio capacity of a sloth. If a lion were to even look at me I'd be done. Plus I've got a lot to offer, this ass could easily feed a herd, perhaps even a neighbouring one as well. They could partake in some kind of white girl BBQ party. Get to know each other over the sharing of my left quadricep.
I don't want to leave.
Change or no change. Fuck change.
I don't want to leave.
I hate change. Yet it seems to just adore me. Can't get enough of me. Do I hate change? I say I hate change, but I seem to invite it in with open arms on a regular basis. If I'm not constantly being challenged I begin to hate everyone and everything. I become the devil. Whiny, discontent, utterly miserable. I feel like you can only be complacent for so long, before you long for more and begin to resent your own happiness, turning it into some close relative of disdain. So then why, when we should most accept it, are we so thrown aback by a shift in life? We get stuck in our happiness, and worry that it can't get any better than this, regardless of the fact that we've become stagnant, and our happiness, uninspiring. But it's safe. We feel secure in our settled happiness. And then comes change to challenge whether we believe we can find that happiness again. We are so afraid to take a chance on chance that we would rather be mediocrely happy than risk discovering a happiness far greater and more promising. Because what if we lose out on both? But if one were to look at their life, does any loss not eventually find some kind of consolation? There will always be periods of time when life feels the need to remind you that you're not invincible, but it usually comes around to assure you you're still just as prone to happiness as you are to heartache. Life has shown me this enough times to know better. To know to embrace change and not fear it. To know that whatever can't be helped is that way for a reason. And even if it isn't, decide that it is, and go with it. I can stomp my foot, aggressively fold my arms, and cry out in a mad temper all I want, but the night is still going to come, and I'm still going to have to go to bed. And you always feel so much better once you're under the covers. Change is as certain as bedtime. Embrace change, Chelsea. I have to keep telling myself. Allow life to show you what it has to offer, even if it's not what you think you need. A friend once told me that people often get confused with what they want and what they need. We often think we need something when we really just want it, and vice versa. Once you discover which is which, life will unfold with such ease. I want to stay in London. I don't need to. Maybe, I need to learn to let go, and go with it-- whatever 'it' may be. Perhaps I need to resign myself to the idea that this really was just an experience, a chapter of my life, a page with a puppy eared corner to allow for a reread one day, ages from now, or even sooner. I mentally flip through the haphazard, metaphorical book that is my life, and see so many moments of happiness similar to this. Where I truly believed life couldn't show me a more perfect existence. Yet, I currently claim to be the absolute happiest I've ever been. So who's to say that years from now I won't look back at this folded corner and think to myself, you really had no idea.
Three months ago, I thought my life was amazing. And now I'm sitting here thinking to myself, you really had no idea. I moved out of my miniature Turkish flat, mostly out of fear that I was unknowingly, and against my will, being thrown into an arranged Turkish marriage by my flatmate's mother, who (plot twist) also became my flatmate shortly after I had moved in. Apparently your mother visiting translates to something completely different in Turkish. Something along the lines of, "My mother is actually moving in with us but I'm not going to tell you because it's more fun that way, and you have such an adorable confused face. No, instead I'm just going to try to sleep with you, and then get mad at you when you're never home and jack up your bills out of spite and embarrassment that you turned down my advances." (I have no evidence to prove the last statement, but I still believe it.) So I moved out. And after several discouraging flat viewings, I found a home to put my heart. A real home. With a back garden, and a piano, and the quaintest little kitchen that I have actually used on more than one occasion-- and for more than just finding a spoon to dip into my peanut butter. I felt like this generation's foreign Goldilocks. Though it took me five tries instead of three (I'm a bit slower than the average bear), I finally found a place that is just right. (Yes, I have lived here for a year and a half and have moved five times. How on Earth can I still say I'm afraid of change…). The man of my dreams has moved in with me from Canada, my gusband (gay husband) and soulmate, Jan. We share a room on the top floor of our cosy house in Clapham South with six other flatmates-- none of which are Turkish, nor want to get in my panties. At least not to my knowledge. I got a job at a cake shop, despite everyone's concern that I'd be fired almost instantly for devouring all the stock. I have yet to do so, but my quest for diabetes and life long obesity has upped it's game. I glaze tarts, whip decorative cream, sprinkle sugar snow, while still pouring pints, and refraining from killing small children-- or like, teaching. Whatever.
Why did you get another job, do you ask? Well, you see, I am currently trying to find any and every way possible to stay in this country. I've become that psycho ex-girlfriend who keeps showing up at your door even though you broke up with her months ago and started seeing a woman named Alice. I still refer to you as my boyfriend and constantly brag to strangers about all the amazing things we have planned together, while you're on the phone to the police requesting my third restraining order. I got the job at the cake shop with the hope that they would potentially sponsor me, and therefor allow me to stay in the UK (this would be the equivalent of sending said non-boyfriend a surprise anniversary singing telegram while watching, gleefully from the bushes a "legal" hundred yards away). They won't sponsor me, so now I just work there to drown my sorrows in Lemon Chiffon cake and Curly Whirly brownies (this is the equivalent to seeing Alice open the door to your romantic gesture instead of your beloved, thus causing your left eye to start twitching uncontrollably and without even realizing you suddenly have a handful of your own hair clenched in your white knuckled fist). And I'm back to square one. No notable, nor viable options on the horizon. Just me, and another five and a half excruciatingly fast moving months, and half a lime cheesecake, alone with my thoughts. Thoughts of change. Do I keep fighting or do I take the hint? Will someone please marry me? I looked into that, it's impossible. Everything feels impossible. Except Zimbabwe. Zimbabwe doesn't seem impossible. I hear they have great weather. And copious amounts of chickens. I like chickens. Fuck. I don't want to live in Zimbabwe. I have the cardio capacity of a sloth. If a lion were to even look at me I'd be done. Plus I've got a lot to offer, this ass could easily feed a herd, perhaps even a neighbouring one as well. They could partake in some kind of white girl BBQ party. Get to know each other over the sharing of my left quadricep.
I don't want to leave.
Change or no change. Fuck change.
I don't want to leave.
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