The Island of Misfit Boys

I like writing, and I want to keep this space alive, but I also need to be able to make it more me, I need to be able to talk about myself in a way that will be a little less anonymous. So, going forward, I’m going to take several of the suggestions and password protect some of the posts. In going forward, if I want to talk in a way that is less anonymous, then I’m going to do it behind that type of temporary barrier. If you want to read, shoot me an email and I’ll fill you in.

Yesterday, as everyone knows, was the 8th anniversary of the September 11th attacks. I remember the day, just like everyone else. One of those days of tragedy that instills itself in your memory forever. I remember the initial confusion, the horrible realization, and then the silence. Even living in a major city, it was silent in a way that still gives me chills. No horns, no loud conversation, no planes overheard. Just small clusters of people, speaking in whispers, searching for answers.

I’ve thought about that day a lot over the last eight years. I was going to school for something very different from what I’m doing now. I was dating a girl I shouldn’t have been. It wasn’t the path for me, but it wasn’t an unhappy path. It would have been fairly lucrative, quiet, safe. I didn’t realize it at the time, not immediately, but I was going to be pushed away from that path in the very near future.

I found myself wanting to do something more. I still remember breaking up with the girlfriend, knowing that in reality she just wasn’t a nice person. Not someone to surround myself with. I remember walking out of a final about 30 minutes into it, knowing suddenly that it was not something I could do for the rest of my life. Not thinking, no wondering, just suddenly knowing it without a doubt. And whether or not I knew it or not at the time, by the time I went home for Christmas in December of 2001 I was already on a path to join the military.

So now I’m getting ready to head to Iraq and I find myself thinking of how much the events of eight years ago shaped my life, and the world we live in now. And just like that, I’m sure that I’ll still remember exactly where I was and exactly how I felt decades from now.

So I’m unhappy with the format here, and I don’t think I’ve ever quite managed to find a way that this has really worked for me.

I started writing nearly two years ago. I was at a down point in my life and it helped to push the words out. I was ultra-vague about my job, which was heavily influenced by my wish to remain anonymous. I still have that desire, even though some of you know me and talk to me.  I’ve just never wanted to be out there.

So away I typed and it was fine. I was mostly talking about personal stuff, my life was at a funny spot, and professionally there was absolutely nothing happened. Work wasn’t a big part of my life, so there wasn’t any stirring need to change the way things were done.

I took a short break with the blowup after the breakup and switched blogs (note: breaking in full “view” is never a good thing, I’ll chalk this up to lessons learned). At that time I was switching gears though, working hard, seeing how my life changed so much depending on my circumstances. Will I be here next year? How about next month? At what point will I deploy to who knows where?

So I took a long break. At that point I wasn’t even being totally forthcoming about my job, so a lot of what I said didn’t make sense. I wasn’t happy with what I was pushing out to the world but at the same time I wasn’t willing to lay out who I am. Did I miss writing? Yes. But more, I missed what other people were writing. I missed keeping up, and honestly I was bad at it for a while.

So I came back. I was honest about my job. It’s a big Navy, after all. And now after 2 sites and 2 breaks I’m still writing and still feeling unfulfilled. I want to write freely and openly about my life and about my experiences. I love my job, I want this to be my career. But at the same time, I would hate for this to ever be something that hurt me. Maybe the various and sundry stories about outed bloggers have taken my paranoias to a new level.

In the end, I’ve come to a point where I’m still not happy with what I feel comfortable sharing. The format I’ve chosen holds me back, but at the same time I don’t know that I could really move this in another direction. I’m left half-assing it without a clear picture of how I can get it to a better place.

So I’m going to think about this. I’m not necessarily leaving, but I need to figure out a way to make this work better. It might be changing the format. It might be giving up this little project. Regardless, it needs to get figured out, because the initial fun has been quickly fading into a quagmire of unfulfilled expectations.

Your thoughts are always welcome.

I was talking to a dear friend today when I made the comment that she agreed with, “I feel like I’m playing grownup.” She agreed. It’s a funny feeling to have.

Every day I go to work in a professional job that I’m apparently qualified to do. People come to me, and place in me their trust. Trust not to screw up in a way that would mess up their careers, lives, and/or aspirations. I wonder sometimes where this trust comes from. “I was playing video games and watching an episode of Mad Men last night, obviouslyou have the wrong guy” flashes through my mind.

Of course, I don’t say that. I do my job, apparently I do it well, and people respect that. But it doesn’t feel real sometimes, like the rest of my life.

I’m getting married. Soon. I own a house. And a car. I have bills (including a mortgage on said house). This playing a grown up thing makes me wonder, from time to time, when I’ll actually feel grown up. When I’ll stop feeling like an overgrown kid in a grownup world. Is it when I have kids? When I hit 30? 40?

I mean, for now I’m content to play grownup five days a week and come home to my house (with my huge tv, dog, and fiance), but I’m trying to figure out at which point I become an actual adult.

Thoughts?