Rest

My brain hasn't wanted to turn off lately.  I am certainly tired--I feel it when the alarm goes off before six--but, when I crawl into bed, I don't want to sleep.  My head seems to be housing millions of tiny people, each writing my to-do lists: for tomorrow, next week, next month, next decade.  It doesn't matter that these planners have no respect for 10:00 at night; they're constantly there, and I can't get these guys to get it a damn rest.

I have a lot of plans for myself.  I want to do well.  I want to make my parents and Nicholas proud.  I want to buy a house and start a business.  But it's the things which aren't as well-defined that start to creep in.  Do I want children?  (I don't know!)  Am I ready to start writing a business plan?  (I'd like to say yes, but I have so many questions!)  Where will we live in six months?  A year?  (I want to say the South, but without a transfer paper in my hand, I say for sure.)  When will I finish these stupid skirts?  Who will win the 2012 spring top sew-along?  How will my etsy business do when up against the world?  Can I afford to buy tags for my items?  Are ladybugs a good sign?  (I hope so.  One stopped by to say hello earlier today.)  Will I ever feel like I'm not drowning?  Can I make friends again?  On and on and on and on....

These aren't "What Ifs?" as much as they are "What Whens?"  These are all topics that will come up at some point, either in a week or a year or whatever, but I feel the need to answer them all right now, right this moment.  I must have the answers.  I need to.  If I don't, who does, and can I trust them?  I've always been the kind of person who needs to be everything to everyone; I choose jobs which allow me to cross departments and I never say no to an assignment, but I make sure I leave early enough to go home and cook dinner and clean the apartment, even if that means getting in at seven the next morning to keep working.  There isn't a facet of my life that isn't somehow controlled by me, and I'm starting to think I'm my own worst enemy, creating these self-destructive schedules.

I have an image for my life, and I'm not living it.  I want to live somewhere warm with seasons.  I want to own my business in a downtown area.  I want to stand behind a large, wooden cutting table, folding fabric with puppies at my feet, while customers nosh on the cookies I've set out.  I want my mom to ring up purchases and then help me choose lines to order.  I want the sun to be streaming in, catching the dust in its rays.  This work situation--which is the only life image I have, oddly enough--is one which gives me control, over how long I work, for whom I work, with whom I work, and what I do.  In this situation, I don't think about babies, Nicholas, dinner, or bills.  I think about what makes me happy, and that is it.

I have a very abstract plan for myself over the next year or so.  I have never started a business.  I don't know how to project retail sales, but I'm willing to learn.  It scares me that I may someday hire someone.  I have lots of technical questions, but I also have downloaded templates, a supportive boyfriend and parents, and ideas.  I hope that's enough--or, enough to get some sleep.