I’m a pretty big fan of Adele. She’s one of those artists who I feel like I can always listen to, even if I’m not super crazy about the song – I just really love her voice. The other day, someone mentioned to me that “every Adele song is about the past. That’s all she sings about.” And it’s true, I think, but aren’t all songs about the past? For the most part?

I’d also say I’m a Kelly Clarkson fan. I only have one of her songs on my phone (“Dark Side,” for anyone who is curious) but I always like listening to her voice, as well. I’ve had to listen to the radio a lot lately, thanks to the really shtty person who decided to steal my phone adapter out of my car, and I keep hearing her song “Piece by Piece.” That’s a pretty rough one–I felt decently choked up the first few times I heard it. And, like a lot of her other songs, and like a lot of Adele’s songs, it is about something that happened in her past.

I’m going to leave aside the fact that Taylor Swift is currently usurping my future husband. She’s another artist who writes a lot about the past, but to unnecessary scrutiny. Everyone is always trying to figure out which song is about who, like some giant, all-album-encompassing game of “You’re So Vain.” It had me thinking…I’m pretty sure there are dozens of people who inspire chart-destroying hits and they never even know about it. Maybe these people only had a small impact on someone else’s life, but it blossomed. Or maybe they had an enormous effect to absolutely no avail.

But I think, maybe, the ones who hurt us never really leave us. And I’m going to give three examples of my own to show how.

Number Three. The amount of questioning I impose on myself once a situation like this happens is really staggering. How did I not know; I’m usually better at seeing this; Was this true; Did that actually happen; Had those words been said? My value as an individual–and my value to this person–were shown as two separate perceptions to me, not unlike other situations I’ve experienced before. There are plenty of instances where I think about the bottom lines and the reality of things, and it still feels very raw and very devastating…. but. For the most part, it’s a shredded ribbon. Mostly tattered and then snipped away. I feel as if I should be more upset about it than I actually am. Who knows why I feel that way, and why I do not, but I do know this–it is something that will always be a presence, whether in hiding or forward. It is probably the scenario with the most surrounding triggers, and my reaction to them will be very dependent on a multitude of things, just like the situation itself.

Number Two. This person…it’s kind of funny. I was so absolutely devastated when this person decided to change behaviors so quickly, and I was so busy being hurt and sad that I ignored how angry it actually made me. This was one of those things I thought I would never, ever forget–and I won’t, but for entirely different reasons than I first imagined. This individual and I have a tendency to frequent the same area on a daily basis, and for a good amount of time, I was nervous that this person and I would run into each other. What would THAT be like? Would I get that horrible, omg-there’s-a-huge-drop-on-this-rollercoaster-and-I-had-NO-idea surge of anxiety in my stomach? What would I say? Would I run as pathetically as possible? Thinking about it now, I’d likely behave as usual–as if I did not know this person; as if I had no idea that s/he had ever behaved as horribly and stupidly as s/he did. Because really, when this person does cross my brain, that’s what I think about the most–his/her utter stupidity. Sometimes I think about the conversations we had and I don’t know HOW I didn’t dissolve into complete holy-sht-you-didn’t-really-just-say-that-right? giggles. It’s kind of ridiculous.

Number One. I am lucky to say that this person has far less of an effect on me than in previous times. There were weeks on end when everything was a trigger–patterns on couches in doctor’s offices, movies I’d catch in the middle, the fact that every one of my favorite songs brought up some kind of razor-wired misery. I will not say that it has completely vanished, like some awful smell on a strong wind. It is most certainly still there, a shadow on my foot no matter where the sun is. Even if the stained fishbowl has been removed from my head and I can fully see what the gravity of the situation really was; even though I am far, far less sad than I ever thought; even if recent thoughts make me see how truly pathetic this person is; I will never be fully rid of it. It’s one of those situations that makes me think of “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.” It’s kind of horrific to think about if that type of service actually existed, and how nobody would ever choose to erase someone from their mind…I used to wholeheartedly wish that it were possible, and if it were, I would erase it forever. Now, I hope that after the passage of more time, I am able to think of this person the way I think of Number Two and some aspects of Number One–with complete indifference.

While these three are the most specific instances I could accurately describe in this medium, there are plenty of others–behaviors or actions that I have since forgiven, but still sprout up every now and then. I was talking about one just the other night, and in the middle of rehashing something that happened SO many years ago, I started to feel nauseous. Later, in privacy, there were a couple of tears–not enough to be noticeable to anyone but me. But it was quite a phenomenon–something I’d spent so much time wrangling with, talking about with professionals, analyzing my own feelings over, and coming to certain truths…it surprised me that some of it is still a bit raw in the center.

It’s too bad I don’t play any instruments.

Last time, I wrote about how sleep had been eluding me. It hasn’t gotten much better. Some nights, it literally takes hours to fall asleep, and then I wake up every hour. Other nights, I fall asleep quickly and I’m up every 20-30 minutes. I’m working on a story, and in one section, my narrator explains how a specific memory is like a well-oiled marble in my main character’s mind. Sleep has been like that for me – I can grab it, but it slips away easily.

While some of this is due to things that are beyond my control, there’s a pretty big part of it that I can control, and that part is what I think about on a daily basis. So, instead of crazily fixating on things I can’t possibly remedy right now, I’ve been trying to think about good things. Happy things. Am I just distracting myself? That’s a fine theory. But it’s hurting no one, most importantly myself.

Last time, I wrote about the one thing that makes me the most angry. This time, I think I want to write about things that make me happy.

Right now, I’m sitting on the back deck of the house in which I rent the basement. The awning and banisters have been lined with strings of both white and colored lights. It is summer, a newborn July, and tomorrow is my favorite holiday. The neighborhood is feeling exceptionally festive–bursts of color light the sky on all sides. It’s both peaceful and exciting at the same time, and I feel grateful that this is where I am, in many senses.

Summer is the season that will always make me the happiest. I think a lot of that has to do with the elongated daylight hours – how the sun gives up slowly, stretching lazily and leaving trails of color behind as it goes. The 4th of July is my favorite for multiple reasons–everyone is outside, grilled food is awesome, and fireworks are pretty much magic. I kind of like that they’re saved for this occasion only, in most places. There’s a lot of symbolism, and I could probably go on for pages describing what my favorite type of firework looks like. I’ve always said I’m going to either write a short story or a scene that takes place on the 4th of July.

Unfortunately, that isn’t going to happen now. I am working on something, but it is a stretch from the things I usually write. I’m playing with a personality type and a familiar, but unfavorable setting. It’s off my style in so many ways–I already know its end. Usually, I don’t know I’ve reached a story’s ending until it’s looking at me from the other side of the screen. I’m likely going to post it here once it’s finished, which is another deviation for me. It’s slow going, but it is going, and I spent an hour the other night editing what’s there and adding more. Afterward, I couldn’t sleep, but I couldn’t tell if it was because of the writing buzz or because I was throwing so many ideas across my own brain. It feels good to be writing, and it feels good to not abandon the project to work on a new idea.

Because there’s something brewing–something big, I think–but I’m going to let it steep a little longer before I start typing. I feel like my imagination is lifting weights. It’s gotten scrawny over some time, but now its taking gym selfies in the mirror.

I have a new job, finally – thank all that is holy. I get paid a pretty decently awesome hourly wage that I negotiated up when I was hired. I sit in a very open space, next to a huge window, with a monitor that’s almost television-sized. I switch off between PDF and paper edits. My comments and suggestions are taken seriously, even if they’re not always incorporated ((the bane of every professional proofreader and editor everywhere)). I actually feel like my presence is appreciated, and I find that I actually get excited about certain projects when they’re handed to me. It takes me 10 minutes to get there. I’m working four-hour shifts, which is both ideal and not, but it means I have time and energy to do my own writing. I’m using my brain. And I might still just be a cog in a wheel, but I don’t feel like it, and that’s awesome.

My moods are wonky, but I can say that they switch between content and anxious, instead of just varying degrees of anxiety. The other afternoon, I felt a weird sense of calm while I was driving with my boyfriend–the first time in quite awhile when it was like, “everything’s okay.” Conversely, I was waiting on line at Best Market this afternoon to pay for the ingredients for a watermelon-feta salad I’m making for tomorrow and out of nowhere, I felt incredibly anxious. There was no reason for it, really. The store was crowded, but the line was moving. Maybe it had something to do with the incredibly rude man who sidled up behind me soon after. Here’s a note to the public: I get that I look different from your usual day-to-day redhead. I would probably spend a few extra seconds longer looking at my face, too, if I’d never seen a facial PWS before. But here’s the thing–if I catch you staring with direct eye contact three times over, you’re being an asshole.And just for the record, I don’t think you really have a right to stare when you’re wearing a huge straw cowboy hat, athletic socks and brown dress shoes, and you’re oddly crooning to yourself. Just saying.

So, the night is winding down and hopefully, I am, too. But if not, at least I have some really good things to think about, and tomorrow, if I’m inevitably exhausted, at least I’ll be with some of my favorite people, enjoying one of my most favorite days of the year.

And maybe there will be fireworks.