Inner Ramblings by Cece

I am a guest writer on this blog. Although I rarely make an appearance outside of the comments section, it is my privilege to add posts at my discretion. And if you haven't figured it out yet...I choose to do so now.

Do you ever feel out of place in a familiar place? Have you ever had the feeling that you are an outsider but you didn't know it until just now? Sometimes I feel so "with it". Sometimes I feel that I have such good fortune. That I have a pleasant home, family and work environment and then suddenly...one of those things becomes strange to me. I have colliding feelings of being content and being disconcerted. If I have problems with my family, I come to work and forget about it. If I have problems at work, I go home and forget about it. But the next day, things are still strange. I remove myself for a while...things become comfortable again...and then the entire cycle starts all over. It must be me. Perhaps I alienate people? Do I get too comfortable and then suddenly I am not such a great person? I become quiet, then people warm up to me again? Or do I just think that is the case because I am scared to have friends or be friendly. I imagine that they don't like me anymore so I close up. People notice and try to bring me back out and because that feels good, I emerge again. Whats my big fucking problem? This isn't even an interesting topic. I'm not cracking any jokes here people. How fucking boring. But I'll continue anyway. Why do I have such social anxiety? Is it because my parents were so strict and God fearing? Shit. Sex was always a dirty thing until I married my husband. I no longer feel guilty about it but damnit....I'm already 30. What happened to 10 years of my life? The ten years that I could have been partying and fucking and....having fun? Is that fun? I don't know. People who do it on TV seem to be having fun. I digress. Maybe its because we moved so much when I was a kid. I was always thrust into scary new situations. I didn't thrive, I shriveled. The only person I could talk to was my cat. I was destined to be an old hermit maiden talking to her cats and living in a little house in downtown Minneapolis like my Great Aunt Margaret. Sitting for years on the same couch with the same bed and the same kitchen table being visited by the same relatives at the same time every year. Alone. Nothing ever changed in her house. When she died...it took a while to realize it. And then she was gone. The tiny frail woman who sent me a Christmas gift every year, the one who helped build B-52 bombers during the war because she was one of a team of tiny women like herself who could fit inside the infrastructure to implant some special piece, the one who cut her head out of all the pictures they found after she died. I could be that lady. I think. I could have been. If I wasnt a horny bitch who fell head over heels for a shy guy. Yes, indeed. If I still thought sex was a nasty dirty secret thing that only bad people do...I could be that woman. Why? Because I guess my entire point is that I am fucked up. I am scared of people and how they may hurt me. I am scared of hurting them. I think too much about terrible things that frighten me down to my bones. I don't know why people don't like me and I don't know why I don't like alot of people.
I don't know why my cat died. I miss her.