Ever since my behavioral science teacher pointed out I'm crazy--or rather, eight variants from the norm--I like to whip out the proof. As though there could be any doubt that I'm not playing with a full duck.
The last few months haven't been easy. School, bills, kids, jobs--that whole issue with anemia. I think I'm still iron-poor, because finals totally burned me out. Someone asked me if I'd learned anything over the last quarter and I did--self-doubt is not a good thing in a crazy person. I create my own reality. I think most writers do. A therapist would call me delusional, but I like to think of it as inhabiting sort of a pocket universe where somehow I got stuck at thirty and still look a lot like those pictures I took just before I moved out West. No clue why sometimes I look exactly like my internal image, and sometimes I don't. But college--real, on-campus, with the teenagers and twentysomethings college--is messing with my head.
Maybe I've finally noticed I'm old. I mean, you can "know" something for the truth, but not realize it. I look around, see people my age, and think "old". Until recently I looked at myself and thought, "Jodi". But ever since small groups I've been secretly afraid that I actually look and act like the other old people. I noticed a little soft skin around my jawline, and spent hours feeling it like I had the mumps or something.
I know I'm angsting over my age, but my pocket universe is leaking. Things that used to be easy are getting harder and harder--I can't get a lock, I can't get a grip. I'm getting push-back on stuff across the board and I'm doubting myself. I watched a video on Digital Nation, that said the more you multi-task, the more fragmented your attention span becomes, and the less effective you are. I need to look at my life and see what I can trim back.