One more decision

My name is Ella. Growing up, I was told to do my best and conquer the world. My duty was to study, focus on important stuff, and not get distracted. No movies, books, friends, or boys were supposed to derail my mother's goal: I would have what she didn't, and I would share the success with her: my sponsor, my promotor, my everything... at least for a while.

School was always tough for me, not because I found it challenging to deal with it, but because I was never as good as others thought I could be. The pressure at school was much better manageable than the one at home, even when I realized my mother was strict but would never kill me if I failed math. I was never a sports girl or a genius in science, and even if I loved literature and reading, learning grammar was boring and consuming. Despite the struggle, my grades were good enough to pass year by year, and they improved during my high school years, allowing me to attend university: I was on the right path to becoming "something." In those semi-adult years, I chose a career that should give me a bright future, and it did... until the lights went out, and I decided to change my life before it decided to run away from my body. But I am getting ahead of my story. 

I believe I did burn out for the first time during my university years, even though no one took me to a doctor's office to diagnose such a condition. Looking back, I remember my engineering course as a continuous nightmare, one of those where someone chases you, and you keep running...forever. I did not like what I was doing, and I did not want to change either, which seems stupid, but it's the truth. I did not want to change or stop because I felt I couldn't. How could I? That would mean failing my mother's expectations and, even worse, contradicting the firm belief that had been given since I was an infant: never stop, never quit, always show you can do whatever is necessary. What was I supposed to do? Look for happiness by doing something energizing? To feel good? No. I considered it but did not dare to do it, so I continued and finished my studies. That was supposed to take the weight from my chest... and it did until the next thing came across. Because there are always things thrown at us and others... well, we choose them even if we have no idea what we are doing.

After years spent with my nose buried in books, the next logical step was to look for a job. In a rebellious attempt to take ownership of my life, I moved abroad and got my first job, where I learned a ton, mostly about people. Sometimes, I even learned things about myself, which might sound ridiculous since that's who I had always lived with... but in fact, I hadn't, not like that. I had ups and downs, and a few years later, my mother politely asked whether my universe domination headquarters could move to her living room. Unfortunately for my mother, I had listened for years- too well- to all the stories she told me about the mysteries of this planet and its people, so I decided to move around to see it all with my own eyes. If I had been a bit more adventurous instead of settling in apartments, I could have made a YouTube channel to speak about my van life. If I had not decided to work stupid hours in a corporate job, I could have taken surf lessons, partied for days straight, and taken over fabulous businesses. But not. I met someone. I fell in love. I had children. I kept working, studying, and having wonderful goals for a wonderful future. And then, again, a dark cloud. One day, on our way home from work, I asked to go to the hospital instead. That was the first time I thought I was dying... but I was not. I was "just" having a panic attack. And a few weeks later, I had the second. 

At that time, I had a tough job and two children who were not in the business of making life easier. Some of my colleagues did yoga and meditated; others popped pills like candy to overcome that thing called stress. I was terrified of pills and what they do to people, what they turn them into, so I decided to speak and hate a stranger instead. Oh, my, how I hated that woman, for months, sitting in that red chair, speaking... I talked and talked, and the seasons changed. I moved away from that red chair, together with my family, into a more Nordic style, with lower temperatures and greyer skies. I had always thought sunlight was overrated. Now, I think that's what you feel when you have it every day.

I got a new job and then another. I met more people, got more responsibility, grew older, and lost patience for silly things. And politics. And things and people that are supposed to be like all the others... Maybe Taylor Swift is correct, and if I were a man, I would be the man, but at this point in my story, I don't know if I even would want it. I don't know if I want to conquer the universe anymore. I feel more inclined to write about it and attack the cookie drawer instead... or travel worldwide and enjoy a good coffee and sweets. Last year, I burned again. While having a panic attack on the elevator and struggling to breathe on my way to the seventh floor of my office building, I tried to think what that meant for my future. None of the thoughts were good or politically correct. I wished the world would burn instead of me, but I am a reasonable person -most of the time- and what I decided was much easier for everyone around me. After all, the problem was me, not them. I left. I cut ties. I disappeared from their lives to take over mine.

One year later, I write from my living room, read in my bed and garden, pick my younger kid up from school, play with him and his siblings, and share my life with my partner. I do all those things, but I feel nothing. I am productive. I have a goal and a continuous challenge. I've chosen my path, the one that was supposed to make me happy... Someone told me once that it was a perfect job for a tormented soul. Based on that, I should be the most successful person in my area, but not yet. Right now, I'm just perfect on paper: tortured and conflicted. 

One more decision.

There is a little bottle in front of me. One pill a day keeps me sane and stable. I look at it and think about sanity and stability, what it means, and what doesn't. This is not it. I don't think so. I take the little container. I open it. I pour the pills on the counter. So many things I've decided in my life. So much struggle... and then, now, not anymore.