angiepants [one pocket at a time]

On sorrows left to settle in the stomach

I’m stressed.  I don’t know how best make this sound intriguing, but that’s it.  I tend to ask others about their days, goals and frustrations-but I’m holding mine in writing instead:

• Finding Housing starting June 17^th and years after that.  (Btw: I’ve never paid for Housing, cable, or even know what it like to deal with a landlord and utilities)
• Being available to Residents.  Actually having time to discuss deeper things.  Being able to plan more fun events and decorate nicer hallways for them.  I want to be so much more for them at times.
• Getting in some kind of shape.  I feel overall plumper and having to be half naked for joint mobilizations and examinations during winter doesn’t help.
• Doing well in school.  There’s been a lot more pressure recently to ‘think’ like a good Clinical Practitioner and get lots of outside experience.  It’s a challenge to keep up on every part.

The last three days I’ve had sharp, needle pains in my stomach that are literally gut wrenching.  They lasted a few hours each and I was left unwilling to socialize with my classmates (friends!) next to me or completely incapable of comprehending 3 hour lectures.  I don’t eat ‘badly’ but I now have to put conscious effort into making everything basic, simple and non-aggravating to get off this tummy track.  This stress is hard to digest.

On Treading Feet & Running Minds

If NYCtourist.com says 10 blocks equals about one mile, I don’t even want to divulge on the amount of Philly pavement my feet have tackled today, and this whole week in general.

Yes, at first it relief. Knowing I don’t have time for the gym, I aim to walk. And after a stressful Exam, I feel the need to walk.

I wouldn’t care where. It’s the aspect of something else moving other than my ticking mind. Something to offset the racing thoughts and worries. Temporary distractions of store fronts. The sound and sensations of steps to offset, or at least balance, the big brain upstairs.

Unfortunately, time is limited and my travels are more destinations. Point A to Point B and Points R, S, with a necessary Pit Stop M inbetween.

Home has only been the definition of the term. I eat, sleep, and have AC. Right now at college, it’s not my version of a home. I would like to have the three 3 living in my suite to keep the place somewhat sanitary, respect space, and just get it. I swear I’m a good roommate-I cook then clean it, take out the trash that’s not mine out on an almost daily basis, don’t take up counterpace, and actually start conversations rather than just ignore.

After all is said and done, I’m walking to intense science classes. I’m walking to a sanctuary, not a home. The stress of all my over-involvement is adding up, and I’m getting better at recognizing it now. Even the walking has limited effects. Today was an extremely low point„ where I gave myself two options: 1. Punch my College Shuttle Bus Window 2. Cry in the Philly heat and hope the sweat from the humidity covered it.

I did neither and things just kept tensing. Something needs to be done, but I’m just too soft-hearted or overbooked to make those necessary changes right now.

On trying. Really Trying.

For over 5 years our family basement has been left unpainted and unfurnished.  It’s been dominated by my 17 year old brother’s teenage boy sleepovers-leaving opened food and drinks, sleeping bags, piles of dirty clothes, and other dingy things all over.  The large basement ‘family’ room has become his extended bedroom, or mancave.

Three days ago I came across old music albums records collecting dust in the backyard shed.  Me and the mother always wanted to decorate in a 1950’s style.  I was glad when my parents would let me decorate with their antiques, and even more THRILLED when my brother thought the decorating idea was ‘cool’ and acceptable.

Today I get my paint shirt on, get the drop cloth, tray, and rollers set.  I met my brother downstairs (playing video games of course) and said I just wanted to paint the small 3 foot wall segment in a white base white coat.

Long story short, three hours later I’m still wearing this same paint shirt (minus any new paint marks) after hearing more foul words, accusations, and insults from my brother than ever before.

I would like to complain. I would like to meet my palm so hard with his face that it actually makes a mark he realizes.  I would like to just shake him because he doesn’t just get it.

When he turns 18, I don’t understand how he’s going to survive.  He finally got his first job this year (I’ve worked since I was 15), so yes he knows how to make money.  But he still doesn’t understand responsibility, independence, and things more important than the newest Xbox 360 game or TV upgrade (Did I mention he spent almost all of his work paychecks on an over a 54” TV?)

Little Brother, I really love you, and I try so damn hard.  Please don’t make it this hard to understand why I work to keep in touch and brag about you to my friends.  Learn, please, learn.