What Is My Bliss? …Really.

My mind moves at a million miles a minute, I swear. I’m constantly thinking about 5 million things at once. Yesterday and today it’s been: What is my bliss? No – really.

I don’t think we’re truly self-aware if we don’t constantly question everything we know, or should I say – everything we think we know.

A few months before graduating college I kind of had this profound, deep existential crisis that spiraled into about a week of depression, which consisted of: I don’t want to do music anymore. I hate it and want no part.

And I don’t know where it came from. Maybe anxiety and doubt due to the fact I didn’t have a job lined up, nor did I want to think about one. Could have been a childish response to a part of my youth coming to a close. Maybe I felt too dependent on it and that scared me. Maybe I was just tired of being in school for so long. When talking (or should I say shouting) to my my mom about it, I kept saying things like, “It’s been my life for so long, it’s like I’m not interested anymore” and “I feel like I know all there is to know, and I don’t know what to do with it anymore”.

I don’t think I feel this way anymore. I actually ended up crying in my room for a long time listening to Saves The Day’s Sound The Alarm, so music did get me through it after all (which I really resented at the time). I am still currently pursuing jobs in the music industry, I listen to music everyday, I still write songs, play guitar, etc. I think I just had a crack-up. But there are days (many days) where I catch myself making excuses when it comes to my own songwriting pursuits: Oh, I don’t feel like going to that open mic today and I don’t want to record this week and I don’t feel like going to that show. I almost feel like I’m sabotaging myself (which apparently really is a thing women tend to do according to Women Who Run With The Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estes). I am I really lazy and harming my ambitions in the long-run, or am I just generally not interested and should just accept that fact and move on to something else?

All my life I feel I’ve pushed myself (or have been pushed) to do things I sometimes didn’t want to do, and sometimes when I did them, I’d feel really glad that I did. But I don’t know what this is – this feeling of hesitancy and closeted introverted-ness. I cringe at the fact at lugging my guitar somewhere. I like performing, but it’s mainly the fact that I have to go somewhere to go do it. And then that annoying question always lurking in the back of mind: Is this really all worth it?

I like doing things if I can anticipate a positive end result. Maybe that makes me spoiled? I’m not sure. But that’s the way I like to do things. But to be a musician is such an unknown. And I might I sound like a baby going on about this, but I’m really battling these feelings. Does it matter at all? Does anything matter at all?

And I got business cards with my songwriter info on them, I got a new feedback suppressor for my guitar. Why not use them, right?

I guess these thoughts are plaguing me as of late because there was an open mic at a place near me last night, and I decided not to go. To make myself feel better, I decided to go to my friend’s show instead which was in the same town. But then as the hour ticked closer and closer, I became less and less enthused and wanted more and more to just stay home and read or something. I didn’t like how that’s what I felt I really wanted. I felt like I was bullshitting myself – I should have pushed myself to go. Have I just been home for too long and that’s why I feel this way? I’m too comfortable here? (For TNG fans: Will Riker much?) I ended up getting a headache and went to bed right after dinner last night, anyway. So maybe I needed rest and I’m just making a big deal out of nothing.

The place I go to has a weekly open mic and I played it at the beginning of the month. It went great. The next week I had an interview scheduled for the next day, so I decided not to go, opting to go to bed in order to wake up well-rested and prepared. Then yesterday came.

I guess what I’m trying to get at is if I feel at peace, is it worth disturbing that peace to go and pursue something that disrupts that peace in a way? See, I hate the idea of wasting my life. And honestly, right now, I don’t feel that I am. But it’s the thought of the possibility that I am that creeps up on me. What if I could be doing more? But then for what? Why even push myself if it leads to nowhere? Do I just think music is my bliss because it’s been constant in my life? What if it’s not? What if I’ve transcended past that and it’s something else now? What if I’m just wasting my time pursuing some childhood dream? What is my bliss, really? Is there something more or am I just following a shadow of what I think I know?

Has anyone felt like this about anything? Let me know in the comments, y’all >>>

Peace and love,


Vulnerable Snapshot

Last week I cried watching Dead Poets Society.

I don’t know why this is important, but I feel like it is.

Maybe it’s because seeing Neil kill himself and knowing Robin Williams suffered a similar fate…I don’t know. I used to cry watching the movie before, but now it’s a whole other ballgame.

My Nonna came home from her rehab center today. Now that I think about it, she’s been gone for about a month. She was at the hospital before the rehab center. She basically threw herself into congestive heart failure in the hospital emergency room, freaking out and being overdramatic about pain in her knee. Not to discount her pain. I know she was in a lot of it. But if you know Nonna, you know she has a flair for the overdramatic. Her anxiety and constant hyperventilating was more than enough to make her body fill her lungs with water. The doctors called it “flash pulmonary edema”. I was there with my mom that night, and I meant to write about the whole experience but just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I kept procrastinating it.

And maybe there’s not so much to say anymore aside from the fact this was the second time I accompanied my mom to the hospital for a Nonna-related incident. This trip scared me the most though. I tried to breathe with her to steady her breath as the doctors and nurses and technicians were hooking her up to machines to get her to breathe right; In that moment I felt my tears well up. I tried to ignore them, realizing I was breathing more for me than for her. My mom and I didn’t get home ’til about a quarter to four in the morning.

The first Nonna hospital emergency room trip I experienced, I couldn’t help feeling that it was some coming-of-age trial that Life was throwing at me. Demanding me to grow up. Life gets real serious in hospitals.

I don’t know if there’s a point in telling you all this, but maybe I just felt it needed to be said.

I baked Gluten-Free/Dairy Free Orange Creme Cupcakes today, for Nonna. She liked them. She seems to like everything I bake so I’m not sure if she really did or not or if she’d ever tell me otherwise. And although I grated part of my thumb while making orange zest, I’m definitely getting better at making icing. Definitely not one of my strong suits. I always tend to fuck it up somehow. Today was the closest it came to being perfect. I think I had too much liquid/not enough sugar. Next time. It’s always a learning experience and that’s okay. And that goes for everything.

I’m really glad Nonna’s home. I thought I wouldn’t be. No offense to her, but it was kind of like a nice break for my family and me. I could be more liberal with dinner choices, my mom was sleeping all the way though the night without having to wake up to check on her. I could also walk around my room as early or as late as I liked (she sleeps in the room below mine). But now it’s nice to hear her voice again and feel her skin and give her hugs for no reason and have her taste my cupcakes. She’s definitely stronger and in less pain than the last time she was here – and I’m happy for that.

You know, last week I did take out a part of my day to mourn Robin Williams death. I made sure I was alone and just encouraged the tears to come. They did. And after I had cried I felt like a weight had been lifted, and I’m still not sure why that happens – why it feels like such a relief. My head felt lighter. I talked to the air for a bit and then got a tissue and cleaned myself up.

So I thank you for reading this vulnerable snapshot into my life. It just feels nice to share sometimes.