Getting back to me

You know the whole live like it’s your last day on earth sentiment? Or rather, if you only had one year left, how would you spend it?

Well, I think about this sometimes. I don’t know quite how I would spend my last day, or year, or what have you… but I do know one thing for sure: it would be nothing like the way I currently spend i

t.

Why, then, you might ask - am I living my life the way I am? Why is everything such a struggle, so disorganized, so… unsatisfactory?

And why won’t I fix it?

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When I look back on my childhood, I think of how structured and routine everything was. Between school, sports, family, and my friends, my waking hours were pretty much all accounted for, all day, every day.

It wasn’t until I went off to college - with a suddenly very opened up schedule - that I first experienced down time. A time when my parents, school, or sports did not 100% dictate my schedule.

A lifelong people pleaser, I wasn’t exactly sure where to turn, who to please, or more importantly - how to think for myself.

In contrast to my senior year of high school - where I found solace in controlling my eating as a means to cope with the looming milestone event of leaving home and entering the unknown - my freshman year of college was all about becoming completely unhinged, stuffing food and my feelings down my throat through binge eating.

After a few years yo-yo’ing between restrictive and excessive eating, a new activity came to dominate my day-to-day: drinking. A perpetual late-bloomer, it wasn’t until my early 20s when I discovered the pleasurable, mind-numbing effects of alcohol. Then, with a somewhat unchanging physique and a socially acceptable vice at my side, I began to mindlessly charade myself through years of landmark events.

My last decade had been filled with milestone after milestone. My 30th birthday coincided with my engagement, followed by my bridal shower, wedding, pregnancy announcement, baby shower, baby, new house, new pregnancy announcement, second baby, and now… nothing.

I’d been on such a roll of celebrations that I’d never really considered the feelings I was now beginning to experience. Feelings that even alcohol could no longer dull. Monotony. Boredom. Overwhelm with the life I built. Despair. Alcoholism?

Sure, I’d brought on some - okay, most - of these emotions myself. It was what it was. I was a perpetually exhausted yet always frenetic, full time working mom whose kids and family dominated my very existence.

It’s not that I didn’t love nor enjoy being with my family. Because I really did. It’s just that I was losing what little parts of myself I had left, the parts I could barely remember.

Days were spent running from one activity to another with no real guide to our participation other than being invited. I recognized we could use and appreciate little breaks here and there, but that seemed to go against expectation. So, back to my people pleasing problem, I opted to keep the peace vs. act on my own wishes. It was the path of least resistance - and the path to a semi-functioning, semi-happy family.

I knew I wasn’t living life to my full potential. I wasn’t really living at all so much as I was existing. Surviving.

If and when I could carve out a few minutes to myself, the act of cracking a beverage, sitting in silence, and mindlessly scrolling through my phone seemed more restful and fulfilling than trying to conjure up a hobby to pursue.

Admittedly, I eagerly awaited these few minutes of ‘me time’ all day, seemingly rushing through all acts of parenting, loving, working, friending, etc. to reach the finish line and finally breathe that one big sigh of relief of making it through another day. Was that really how I valued my time and myself? Work, work, work, work, work, 5 minute reward, repeat?

Wasn’t there more to life? What was that saying… it’s about the journey, not the destination? Was there a way I could reach the point of enjoying the little - living - things and not just the numbing - deadening - things? Wasn’t there something - anything - I could self-servingly sprinkle into my life to bring me joy?

Where had I gone and, more importantly, how was I going to get back to being me?

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Now, don’t get me wrong. I’ve done the whole self-seeking bit before. I’ve had countless therapists and psychiatrists. I’ve hugged my inner child, talked my story to death, and tried every anti-depressant, anti-anxiety, anti-everything drug out there.

There’s this meme that pops up in my social feeds occasionally that shows two windows open for business. One on the left labeled “prescription medications” and one on the right labeled “guide to healthy habits”. The medications line is so long is trails off the side of the image. The healthy habits line is empty. I think about this often. How we tend to over-complicate matters and seek out diagnoses and prescriptions instead of just giving ourselves the most basic form of self love out there through following baseline healthy eating, sleeping, exercising habits.

That being said, do I *know* healthy eating, sleeping, and regular exercise will help my well-being? Yes, I do know this. Do I have these consistent habits? No, I do not.

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I’ve always wanted to write a book. I grew up reading Nancy Drew under the covers by flashlight long after my parents called for lights out. My favorite classes involved creative writing. I’ve long been captivated by good storytelling. I’m in awe of authors and their stories of how they came to be writers.

I don’t know why I can’t take the plunge and start writing my own book. Or even a short story for crying out loud.

Am I afraid of failing at the one thing I’ve always felt I’ve been born to do?

There has to be a reason why I haven’t truly attempted it yet, at age 39.

What am I waiting for????