Unfinished

Behind.

If I had to describe one word for how I feel right now, that would be it.

Overall, in general—career, personal, just life.

In reality, I am not. Well, in some ways, I guess it is true.

I hate this feeling.

This past November, I started a new job that I am so well suited for. I have felt needed, respected, and know that I am in a place where I can make a difference and do good work. I am old enough now to know that this doesn’t come along every day. I have worked in some places over the past decade that made me so miserable, where I felt so horrible—where almost everyone felt horrible. Toxicity was almost applauded. Those workplaces are more common than you think. It’s scary how accepted that kind of atmosphere is in a lot of offices. Nowhere is perfect, but I finally landed somewhere that feels…right.

So, there’s one check mark for the areas of my life that I worry about. Career/Job—check.

My marriage just passed the four year mark, and we still love and support each other. I honestly worried for so long that I would never have that kind of love in my life. So, there’s another big area I can add to the list—personal/love life—check.

There’s this stupid thing I do all the time—it’s a habit I started so long ago that I can’t remember when it began. I know it was borne out of me making promises to my depressed, worried younger self. I was really struggling with my self-esteem when I was younger, with everything that was going on with my parents, my father in particular, and just the overall cloud of worry that hung over me a good bit of the time. So, I have this bit of an imaginary check-in with my younger self. I ask myself, what would 10-year-old Kim think of where I am now? Have I lived up to the dreams she wanted? Have I lived up to the things I promised myself?

When I was battling really serious depression as an adult, this little game was horrific. I knew I was letting my younger self down. I was barely surviving every day, and knowing I had blown every promise I had made to myself—in such spectacular fashion—was feeding the depression’s flame.

Then, I got the right help, the right therapist, and took on everything, and after a few years, my life turned around. Things started falling into place, and when I did my check-in, I realized the 10-year-old me would be proud—not only for where I landed—but for how much I had endured to get there.

I haven’t had any weak moments again in this check-in scenario, until now. In comparison to where I have been before, it doesn’t make sense. Things have been worse. Things have been catastrophically worse. Am I just peering over some ridiculous fence dreaming of perfect green pastures that don’t exist for anyone? Or do I know that if I don’t push myself, I won’t have a chance at making my dreams come true? 

Or, am I losing my freaking mind?

All I know is, when I had a frustrating moment at work this past week—nothing too crazy—just something that made me sit and take a few beats alone at my desk. I asked myself the check-in question—and I had to head to the restroom in the office for a few minutes. I paced and stared at myself in the mirror and paced a little more.

An important note here, that I am all too aware of: I think too much.

But, anyway, I got outside and walked around the block.

This city, on a clear day, is nothing short of breathtaking. I have to pinch myself—even after riding the cramped, sometimes unpleasant BART train to work each morning—I get off the train and see the tops of the buildings cutting into the clouds and fog and wonder how in the hell I got so lucky to be here, walking  to work in this amazing place.

When I walked outside on this particular day, it was later in the afternoon, the fog long gone, the clouds cleared, the sky was crystal blue. I just walked and wondered what in my head was making me feel this way.

I tried to force myself to think clearly. I remembered one of the tactics I loved that my therapist used to get me to cut to the core of how I was really feeling. She would ask me to be raw and real. I would say something about how I felt, and she would tell me to tell her the truth—what I was really feeling—be raw, be real. To not think about what was appropriate or what sounded good. It wasn’t always pretty. But it kept me from fooling myself. It also helped me heal faster. For instance, in one of my sessions, I was talking about someone in my life that was honestly being toxic. I started off my saying, “she makes me uneasy sometimes”, but when I got to the raw and real moment, I finally said, “She isn’t kind to me--I really don’t want her in my life anymore”. It was hard for me to get to that point, but I needed to learn to put myself first—something I don’t always do.

So, when I was walking around the block, I reminded myself to be raw and real. The first thing that popped into my head was –“I am so tired”. I know this. Anyone looking at me probably knows this. The fact that I have had a migraine for over two weeks means my body probably knows this. As I am writing this now, I am tearing up. I need a break. It’s no one’s fault, but I have had a lot of financial responsibility for myself and then for our family for awhile now, and the weight sometimes seems so huge. Even though we are in a good place now, I haven’t had a real break in between jobs, without stress, to just relax, disconnect, and breathe for literally years. In truth, I don’t know how long that break would need to be though, for me to recharge.

The fatigue goes back further than that, though. I have been working since I was 16, and in college, I worked up to 3 jobs at a time to barely survive. Once out, I have only rarely and in spurts felt financially strong. It wasn’t for lack of working hard or long hours—or having great jobs. It was just timing, being single, life, living in the Bay Area during the last dot com bust, layoffs, etc, etc. It feels like a long, long marathon that is never going to end. I know that my journey is no different than anyone else’s, and in many ways, I am incredibly fortunate. I am making a good salary, and now have a love with a growing company in a strong market. I just ache for a time, a decent span of time, when I feel like things are more solid financially, that I don't feel so pressured, and that I can breathe. I feel like I have been holding my breath now for about 20 some odd years waiting for that to happen, and I need to be able to let go, to get some relief. When I think about worse struggles others have, I feel ridiculous in even thinking these things. But, I can’t help feeling tired. I just can’t.

The other part of this, is, of course, my dream of writing and making that the focus of who I am and what I do. Every day, the writers I follow on Twitter share similar struggles, even though many of them have known success—at least success in my eyes—having published a book or books, and working on the next one. Many of these writers work another day job, as I do. Somehow, they find a way to do both. I haven’t been able to do that. Especially lately, I have felt this huge setback. It has felt more like a loss, a death. I haven’t been able to feel the true inspiration and hope in months now. For a long time, I had this glimmer that might fade now and again, but it was always there. Then, it went dark. It just feels like I am never going to get this dream accomplished, and more than anything, I don’t know if I have the energy anymore to keep trying.

I hate the part of me that is so envious of people, in particular people I don’t know, that have the luxury of a life where they can concentrate on nothing but their writing. I follow these writers on Twitter and catch myself scowling when they complain about anything. How dare you! I think.You are living a dream.

So, back to my walk. I asked myself what I really want. What would make it better? Real and raw.

Winning lottery ticket.

Very funny.

I can't control the financial part any more than I am now. I am doing my best, working sometimes insane hours, always working hard. So, that's all I can do.

The other part, the writing...I have to somehow find a balance in my life, where my writing is the focus, where I am on a set course to making this happen. Otherwise I am not going to feel fulfilled or even at peace. It may be crazy, but that is my truth--real and raw.

It may just mean that I start making myself go to the library one day every weekend and devote that time to writing. I don’t know yet.

I could also be having a stupid mid-life crisis and this could all mean nothing. But, for whatever reason, this keeps gnawing at me. I honestly don’t think you necessarily choose to be a writer. It is tortuous—and not hugely profitable, especially now in the digital age, when a lot of writers are expected to simply be thankful to be published in a popular online forum—even without payment—or for nearly nothing. Only a few writers really make it big, really make a huge splash and can live comfortably. So, to want to write, there has to be this drive, this other thing in you that won’t let go. I certainly don’t have to write a book. It won’t help our bank account. There is just a story in me that needs to told. There is just  a yearning to do that, to feel I am a writer in that sense.

I wish more than anything I had gone after this dream earlier, set out to be an editor and work in the publishing world long ago. Right now, my life feels so much like a zig-zag maze that is being built as I go, and has no clear path and no clear destination. It is well-built, the structure is fine, there just wasn’t any pre-planning or design. Some would say, “that is life”. Right now, it just feels like lost time, confusion, and poor planning.

Who knows? If I had started down that path, maybe I would be unhappy now. I know that 10 years ago, I wouldn’t have been able to write the way I am now, I didn’t have the experiences behind me, I hadn’t gone through the right therapy to resolve things I needed to. It’s pointless to ask all of these questions—it’s probably just as pointless to play the little game I play—asking if my 10-year old self would be happy with where I am now.

I can’t stop though. It’s become part of my life’s pattern. I think it is also what has helped drive me, and even when it’s made things painful, helped me to survive. Even when I believed I was disappointing my former self so deeply, and a part of me felt it might be better to give up—there were times when there was just enough fire to say—I owe it to her, to that little girl in me, to make this right.

When I finally got into therapy and really started digging into things and being honest, one of the very first things my therapist had me do was write a letter to my younger self. I remember bursting into tears as she described the process. At the time, I had truly hit rock bottom, and I was slowly realizing that I had found the right therapist to help pull me out. When she talked about the specific things she wanted me to address in the letter, I realized I had been writing these letters for years, in my head, over and over.

I am waiting to write that one last one. The one where I say, finally, it’s done. I finished. I did this thing I have wanted to do for so long, that I felt I was meant to do. You can be proud of me.

I can be proud of me.

Fulfilled life's dream--check.

The beautiful artwork featured in the post is entitled "October Wind at the Beach" by the artist Fanny Nushka Moreaux. To see more of her work, visit this site.

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Into the Night

When I was in college, when I found life too challenging, and I felt too overwhelmed to face and handle everything coming at me, I often did something that the adult me now knows wasn’t exactly safe. I would often, usually in tears and exasperated, in the wee hours of the night, grab my keys and head to my car. I didn’t have a planned destination, a map, a route, or anything other than my pain as my guide. Very often the gas tank wasn’t full, but I took my chances, driving into the night, the windows down, my radio blaring, and tears flowing.

It all sounds melodramatic. It wasn’t done for dramatic effect. This was before the days of cell phones and selfies. No one knew my whereabouts. I definitely felt I was running away, or rather, trying to out run everything. Pain, depression, loss, my family, my own failures, the very life I was leading. Sometimes I dreamed of just driving and driving until I ended up in a new, unknown town-- leaving everything behind and starting over. 

In my heart, I knew it wouldn’t all work out as easily as all that. I couldn’t ignore all that was behind me—college courses, work, bills—it would all still be there even if I took up residence in some other zip code.

Ultimately, and usually depending on the amount of gas in my tank, I would decide it was time to turn back around. I would drive slower on the way home, letting the cool air dry my tears, trying to breathe in slowly and take in the night’s movement, the weird, lonely pace around me. I would finally make it back home, exhausted, spent, and fall into bed.

I can often remember dropping my keys on my nightstand and laying down and just hoping beyond hope that I would make it to a time in my life where I never felt this way again. Where I felt settled, safe, and happy. Where I didn’t need to run or out run anything.

The funny thing is, for so long, I thought I had. Then, over the last five years, even in the best of times, there are moments where I would think about those midnight drives in college and feel that tug. Sometimes it was because of work stress or life stress. Sometimes it just felt like I was lost and needed to go looking for something…myself maybe?

Recently, especially, there have been nights where I try and go to sleep and my mind won’t stop racing, won’t stop fretting, thinking, turning over every little thing. Sometimes it’s after a bad day, sometimes I am worried about our bank account or my career, but some nights I just get myself into a spiral of thinking that is beyond anything I could possibly catch up with by pacing or normal worry. I start to wonder if I will ever really finish my book—the dream I have wanted forever—to be published. Then I wonder what I am doing with my life. I feel so far away from the core of who I am and who I want to be. I start feeling like I am paying the bills and losing pieces of my soul more every day. I try and remind myself that we all have to work, that everyone feels this way, but I feel a clock start ticking so loudly that I mentally start searching for my keys. I want to jump out of bed, into my car, and drive quickly into the inky dark night. I want to roll down the windows and feel the night air. I want to drive until I can smell the Pacific and hear the waves and see the moon reflecting in my windshield. I want to drive and drive and drive until the sun rises in a new place altogether.

It won’t solve anything. I will end up right back here. This isn’t a bad place to be. Everything and everyone I love is here. I just wish I was sure about the choices I make every day. 

I have said so many times that I don’t have regrets—that however I ended up where I am, I have made peace with. As long as I ended up here, I am fine. That is not all completely true. I am thrilled with where I ended up—and I believe this was fate—and exactly where I am meant to be. But I do have regrets. And a part of me believes that I would have ended up here (since this is my fate), even if I had made different choices, and maybe after not having gone through such a painful journey.

At one particularly low point over 10 years ago, after our company had just gone through a series of layoffs, I found myself unemployed and unsure of my next steps. I had just enough money in the bank to survive another few months or so where I was, or, I thought, take a leap. I seriously considered buying a plane ticket to Paris, landing, and figuring out the rest from there. I was going to leave everything—my apartment, my belongings, my life—everything behind. I couldn’t decide if the plan was brave or stupid. Now, looking back, I know that it probably would have been disastrous. I was depressed at the time (never a good time to make decisions) and I didn’t have nearly enough money to take a chance like that. I had nothing that even resembled a plan B, and the list goes on. I know all of that. But there is a huge part of me that wishes, very deeply, that I had bought that ticket.

I think my late night obsessive thinking and worrying sessions are a bit of a mini-mid-life crisis. I am just realizing that there is so much I want to do, and I am not making progress on a lot of the things that matter to me. I look at my life five years down the line, and I am so afraid I will still be in this same place. I worry about the person I am, the wife I am, the human being I am. I want so much to do more, to give more, to be more. I worry.

Back in college, on those midnight drives, I was truly trying to run away, out run things, drive towards another place. Part of me wonders now, if when I am dreaming of grabbing my keys and driving, if I am not trying to go back, take the wheel from that younger me. I want to take control, change the course, lead her in a different direction. 

I want to tell her: We will end up here, in the same spot, I promise. The way we get there will just be far less rough, dangerous, and painful.

I can’t go back, I know. I can only worry about the road I have left-- it stretches out before me. I can chart the course from here. I have to remember that, when I am laying here worrying. My hands are on the wheel. I can only plan so much. I can only worry so much. For now, I will sleep, and try and reassure myself. At the end of the day, I will end up back here, right where I am supposed to be, with everyone and everything I love. 

Oh, and to that younger me, so sad, driving in the night, I also want to say, No matter the path we took to get here…we made it. Somehow, we made it.

The beautiful photograph at the end of my blog post is entitled "Time Reverse" and is by Amy M of TruBlissPhotography. Check out more of her amazing work here.

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Seeing Things

Lately, we have been so wrapped up in our stress, that I can only describe what we have been going though as a feeling of drowning. Every now and then, we come up for air and float for a little while, but before too long, we get pulled under again. There are some possible things lining up for us, but right now, things are still uncertain. I wouldn’t wish this kind of financial stress on anyone.

At times, over the last month especially, I have felt selfish for how wrapped up in everything I have been. I feel like I haven’t been as supportive to my friends, and I haven’t been in touch with everyone as much as I need to. It’s just so hard when things aren’t going well to be all the things you want to be and do all the things you want to do.

Earlier this evening, my husband and I decided to take a walk into town to get our mind off of things and splurge (a whole $5.00) on frozen yogurt. The walk was a pretty good hike each way, and it gave us time to just enjoy the amazing weather and connect and talk.

On the way home, as we passed a little restaurant, I noticed an elderly woman struggling to hold the door and get herself inside. My husband was closer so I pointed her out so he could help. What I thought was a walker was a cart, which apparently held all of her belongings. She looked to me to be at least 80 years old, and her coat and clothing were worn and dirty. There was a definite odor around her and her possessions. She quickly thanked Shea for his help and ushered herself inside.

I was so upset as we walked away, I could barely keep my composure. I always hurt when I see people who are homeless, but when they are elderly, it absolutely tears me up. It breaks my heart to think of anyone at that point in their life, all those years lived, and now here they are in this situation. As we walked away I wondered how she had ended up like this, where she would sleep tonight.

It was a jolt of perspective and a reminder that my situation could be worse, but more than anything I just ached for her. I was upset that we aren’t in a different situation where I could have given her money, made sure she had a meal, and I don’t know what else. I have not been able to get her off of my mind, or the look on her face as we saw her-- really saw her situation-- this look of shame on her face and the way she hurriedly thanked us and moved inside.

The fact is, that especially where we live now (in comparison to other places we have lived) there are more people in this situation. I was in San Francisco a few weeks ago for a meeting in an area I hadn’t been in before, and as I was navigating my way off of the subway and around a few corners to my destination, the sight of so many homeless people sleeping in breezeways and on benches literally slowed me down. I had forgotten how prevalent it is here.

I don’t want to be one of those people who looks away and does nothing. Over the years, so many of my friends have cautioned me about being too tenderhearted, too sensitive. And to be honest, there have been a few times when I have reached out to someone and the situation went sideways. An example: over 10 years ago, while I was working in a pretty big city, I noticed a man every morning as I drove into work. He was using a rickety step ladder as a walker and struggled to slowly make progress heading down the sidewalk. The more I saw him, the more it ate at me. For the first time in my life, I was making decent money, and I felt moved to stop and offer to buy him a decent walker. I had been warned by people in my office about doing this…that you never know how people will accept offers, and to be careful.

Determined, I finally pulled over one afternoon and approached him. It was a busy street and all kinds of people were nearby. I asked the man if he would mind if I helped him get an adequate walker. I explained that I had been through some tough times in my life, and that friends and strangers had helped me in different ways, and I would like to, in a sense, return the favor done for me.

He looked at me as if he was trying to understand what I was saying. I was uncertain for a moment if he understood what I meant. Then, he raised his wobbly stepladder over his head and yelled at me to “mind my own business—that he didn’t need any help, he didn’t ask for it, thank you very much”. He then proceeded to swing the stepladder at me a few times. Luckily, he was slow, and I made a hasty retreat to my car.

After a few “I told you so’s” from the people I worked with, I finally got over the shock and embarrassment. A friend reminded me that if I wanted to help, that it was better to work with an organization and give my time/money that way. I have stubbornly forgotten this advice several more times in my life, and I can honestly say, I have had some bad experiences.

It hasn’t changed that gut-wrenching emotional moment when I see someone like the elderly woman I saw tonight. I am glad I haven’t become so cynical that I can’t feel that.

But, there is a small part of me that wishes this feeling didn’t hang on and bother me so much. I keep looking out my sliding glass door tonight, wondering if she is sleeping outside somewhere in the darkness. I wonder if she has family or if she is alone in the world. I wonder if she is a grandmother. I wonder if she is mentally ill or painfully cognizant of her life right now. I wonder if I could have or should have done anything tonight.

I wonder if I am losing my mind.

All I can do is wonder right now, and try and get some sleep… and be thankful that at least for now, I have a bed to sleep in, a roof over my head, my husband next to me, and a 100 pound dog who will likely try and take over most of the space on our mattress tonight. Not insignificant things at all, and things I try to never take for granted.

Tonight, I definitely won’t.

The artwork pictured is by Fanny Allie and is part of an installation called "The Glowing Homeless". Click here to learn more about the artist and her work.

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A Distant Season

What season is this…
When I want to float far away
To a distant place
But somehow
Still hold on to everything dear to me?

Winds change so quickly
The veil of warmth rises
On a whim
Taking a toll
On the pieces of my corner of the world.

Snow on the beach

Still air at odd moments

The chill of the sun

Whispering breezes

The swirl of past moments around me, like dead leaves.

The sky is farther away
Out of sight, out of mind
And I am blind
For being unable
To see what matters most of all to me now.

If I can just float
In still waters a little longer
And let the storm pass…
Will I be here,
Or will I finally find another season?

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Becoming "We"

Over the last month, I have tried so many times to write here. In the past, I have written about some of the darkest moments of my life with greater ease than dealing with the normal life stresses of the last few weeks.

My husband and I moved across the country to a place I love and have missed so much since I last lived here over 10 years ago. It is hard for me to believe that I am back here. I honestly thought I would never be more than a visitor again to the Bay Area, and as we made the long road trip to get here, I had to pinch myself just thinking about it.

We have not had the best luck since our move, in fact the move itself was a horrible experience. Things that should have panned out work wise for me just didn’t, and my husband’s job search has been so much slower than I hoped for him. What I hoped would be a huge confidence boost for him has instead seemed to help solidify some of his deepest worries.

I have been in worse straits than this, in far more financial trouble, and even worse, I was alone in dealing with it. But I have learned that being with someone only means you worry more…it’s not just me that is affected by our move, by my ideas, by my plans-- it is also affecting someone I love dearly. I hate to see him in pain, and as things have seemed to go from bad to worse, I have blamed myself for moving us out here.

But the truth was, we were already struggling before the move. This move has given us the only real hope of better careers, decent salaries, and a future with some savings and possible retirement plans. That was why both of us made this decision, something my husband has reminded me of several times since we got here. This was our decision, not just mine.

I feel like I am learning new lessons every day. First, marriage is tough. Especially as stubborn as we both are, and because we were both set in our (single) ways for some time before we got together. We have both had to make adjustments, compromise, and learn to navigate the tricky waters of being a “we”. There is not a moment that I would take back or give up, but there are tough days. I think about the fact that my husband and I know we are meant to be together, we know neither one of us is going anywhere-- we are in this for the long haul, and yet, we still fight and struggle. How do people make it if they don’t have that foundation? In so many ways, I am glad I got married a little later in life. There is magic in finding your soulmate at a young age, but there (hopefully) is some wisdom and maturity in finding that person a little later in life. I think back on snap decisions and harsh judgments I made when I was in my twenties, just how much I have changed now…for the better. I am thankful I was only dealing with my life decisions and screw ups back then, and not directly involving my life partner at that time.

Yesterday, my husband and I laughed—a lot. It was one of those days when we just enjoyed each other, despite a stressful week approaching, and the juggling act we are playing right now with paying our bills. All of that weighs on us some days more than others, but yesterday, we were just enjoying the time together. Finally, when we went to bed, Shea fell asleep and I was awake thinking about the day and how completely myself I am with him, how unbelievably silly and real I can be around him, without concern or shame. I have never had that with anyone else. It’s sad, but true. There was always a guard I kept up, or someone I was trying to be for someone else—which I was sure was better than the real me. The great thing is that Shea is equally himself, and I know that this reality we are living is tough at times, but intrinsically genuine.

Laying in bed last night, I felt a twinge of panic. Over the last year, I have had several of these episodes where I lose my bearings for a few moments, thinking of losing Shea—not having this other part of me. I have learned all too well through the loss of friends, through stories in the newspaper, and shared through friends on Facebook, that there are no promises. I realized that over the years and through relationships, I would worry about losing a boyfriend, or someone close to me, but not the way I worry now. There is this unbelievable depth in truly baring your soul and being so real with someone. I thought about how hard it would ever be for me to replicate the simplicity of that ease between us with anyone else, and how I wouldn’t want to. Despite our struggles, even though there are times when we are truly at odds, I am so thankful for what I have with Shea and I want the whole cliché of growing old together, sitting in rocking chairs on some wraparound porch together.

Finally, over the last week, we both have seen our luck turn. We both have better work prospects, interviews, and we have some hope that the tide is changing. In the scheme of things, it hasn’t taken that long. We have only been here a few months, but it has seemed like a lifetime at times, waiting for the phone to ring. Things aren’t perfect yet, and a lot of what we are hoping for hasn’t materialized, but there has just been a shift in the way we are looking at things and the way we feel.

I know we made the right decision to take this risk and move here together and make things happen.

More than anything, I know we’re in this together, all of it. Every minute-- good and bad, raw and uncensored, blissful or bleak.

I try and think about how we will look back on this time…what I want to remember. I don’t want to remember the arguments, the stress, the worry—although that’s part of it. Mostly, I want to remember that this time was when we really pulled together and learned what being “we” and “us” meant. After the wedding, the flowers, the vows, almost two years of marriage, all the adjustments and learning, that THIS was when we knew that we could make it through anything life handed us.

I hope we will also remember it as the time just before everything clicked into place and the choices we made all made sense.

But, I’ll have to get back to you on that last part…or rather, we will.

~~

The beautiful papercut art featured in this post is by artist Joe Bagley. Visit his etsy shop by clicking here.

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Adrift

This morning, after a night of restless sleep, I woke early and just lay in bed thinking. The rest of the house was quiet—it was hours before Bear woke up and filled the house with his impatience to be taken out and begin the day.

I think too much. I know it. It gets in the way sometimes of the things I want to do- and I am left only with regret and my thoughts. But, this constant analyzing and turning things over and over is part of who I am—at the core of it—so I can only fight it so much.

What had my wheels turning this morning is just the fragility of everything. One decision made, one wrong turn, and your life is collapsible, suddenly different. Or the worst, you do nothing wrong—no bad decision, no mistake—but just wake up one morning to the phone ringing- a doctor on the other end delivering news that could mean the beginning of misery, or very much the end of your life. It’s not fair. Any of it.

In the last few months, I have personally been on a rollercoaster of my own. A mix of realizing yet another wish becoming a reality—moving back to the city I love with the man I love—but also twists and turns of bad luck, misfortune, and lots of doubt. We are struggling and joyous at the same time. It is a rickety foundation to stand on, but we are balancing somehow.

This morning I thought of all the unknowns we are living. We are both in a questionable career place right now, with lots of expectations, but little certainty. I LOVE that we took this risk and are riding the chances together. I try and will things to happen as fast as I want them to, but I know I can only control so much. In my heart, in my gut, I know we are in the right place. I led us here, even though we both wanted it, I truly steered the course, so I feel responsible.

Two years ago, I had really set my sights on turning my lagging career into an excuse to make my real dream come true- to put writing first and to finish my novel. I would make progress, lose my way for a month or two, then come back renewed and write in extremely productive spurts. Even though it wasn’t consistent, I felt like my goal was still at the forefront.

This morning, an image kept coming to mind. I saw myself in a little boat in a big sea…and ocean around me…and getting farther and farther away from the shore, from land. That shoreline was my dream of writing, and it seemed to be getting smaller and smaller as I floated away. Then, nothing around me but all this uncertainty… calm, but uncertain.

Here I am, with so much to be thankful for, so much accomplished, and I feel lost.

I love reading quotes about “doing what you love”… if only it were that easy. I think it was Steven Spielberg that said “Dream for a Living”. Nice thought. I know he didn’t start out wealthy, I know that he worked hard and sacrificed to get where he is…but when I read words like that, I think- THAT would be nice, if only we didn’t have bills to pay. I would write all the time, I would live my dream for a living.

On the flip side, life is so short and fragile. It’s ridiculous to NOT do what you want, to be what you want. In the scheme of things it is all over in a flash. I can get myself near panic lying awake at night thinking of all the things that could happen, that ARE happening to people I know and care about.

I have watched friends get diagnosed with terrible illnesses and greet the news and the struggle with such strength that I feel ashamed worrying about all the little things I fret about. I know that right now, any one of those friends would trade my problems for theirs—in a blink—in an instance. I can’t make things make sense. Why do these really amazing, GOOD people have to suffer through things like this when others who CAUSE pain and suffering go unscathed? It can’t be explained away by fate or God or reading “When Bad Things Happen to Good People”. No one can make this make sense to me. It is wrong and unfair.

I can remember so vividly when I was in grade school how much I worried about doing the right thing. Part of that was my conscience, part of that was who I am, and part of it was that I truly believed that if I was careful and did good things, nothing truly bad would happen to me. I am shocked to think back on how long I held that belief—it was well beyond grade school. Then, the years add wisdom and the shock of reality. You watch as good people fall victim to the horrible things in life- getting robbed of years and happiness. You stand mystified as the bad guys win—watching the corrupt conquer and their lies somehow go unpunished—and shockingly even sometimes rewarded.

I don’t have answers for any of it. I find a way to keep going and planning the next week without worrying myself insane about all the things that could happen, that might happen. I allow myself windows into these moments, but I can’t stay looking too long. I just wish for things to be different. I wish for certainty in a world that offers no guarantees. I know I am not alone, I know we all do.

So many people have commented on how much turmoil my husband and I took on at once. We moved across the country, I started a new job, and Shea is changing careers, all in a span of weeks. It is daunting, and perhaps part of the reason my head is so cloudy right now. It’s a lot to take in.

Maybe a week from today, my words will have a completely different tone, maybe this week will be the week when I feel more certain about everything. It could be tomorrow, it could be next month.

The ONLY thing I know for certain is that in one moment everything can change—for good or for bad. One moment. And there’s nothing I can do… but make the choices I think are right, and do my best.

That, and wait and hope.

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The Waste of Worry

"Yes, I worry about the craziest things, but better me than someone less qualified." -Robert Brault 

If you have been reading my blog for more than a year, you know full well that I have been through some stressful times. The last two years have been a delightful break in all that—first finding love, then getting married, and finally setting up house. We weren’t worry-free, but so many of my dreams came true that it all seemed a little bit magical.

The past few months have been a little more stressful. Just life stress. Money, job changes/layoffs, family difficulties. But hey, I survived a lot of stress over the years, a lot worse things than we are facing now, right? I have faced and conquered life-altering stress. I have stared down my demons, admitted all of my past pain to a complete stranger (therapist). I endured hours and hours of therapy that at times felt like some torturous prison camp as my scars and old wounds were torn open, baring everything I had ever feared or lost. All this while being out of work, pretty much broke, and trying to recover from a huge betrayal/ break-up.

So, anything now should be a cake walk. It should. But as my husband and I both face a tough job market, big decisions, and dealing with some hurtful and tense family issues, I am wondering if I have learned anything from all I have gotten through. Why do I worry myself into panic attacks and extra helpings of migraines? Why do I lay awake at night fretting about things I can’t change until I am sweating, counting the hours passing on the clock on the nightstand—the glowing numbers seeming to fly by at breakneck speed?

I know that this does absolutely no good. Worrying won’t help any of it. It also doesn’t help me be a better person, a better worker, or a better wife. What it usually does is leaves me sleep-deprived, grouchy, and less apt to find the solutions to what is going on than I would be if I got some sleep and gave the worrying a rest.

It’s different now that I am married. Before, I worried for just myself, and it was a huge weight dealing with everything alone. But now, I worry for my husband—for both of us. I want to be the best wife I can, I want to help us build a future together, I want to make the right choices about jobs, where we live, and what to cook for dinner. I am under no pressure from my husband, who believes I am gifted at all of these things. And sometimes I even worry about THAT.

We have both been under pressure as money has been tight, and sometimes it seems like an accumulation of little things going wrong turns into an avalanche. At one point last week, a lot had happened and it seemed like our house was running under Murphy’s Law 24/7. One thing seemed to stack on top of another. There was a quiet tense moment, and then… we laughed. We had to. It all seemed almost absurd. It was a good moment, and helped us to remember that we are in this together, and we are so good for each other.

It is 12:18am as I am writing this, and the last hour has been devoted to worrying about my dreams of being a writer—and how I can ever fit that into everything we are trying to do. I don’t want to lose that, I want to make it happen. Then it hit me that I was worrying instead of writing. So here I am. It’s one small step to slow down the wheels turning in my head, to try and take away one piece of the never-ending puzzle that is this need to fret.

I am sure by 1:00am, something else will inhabit my thoughts…seriously low bank statements, pain that I wish I could take away for my husband, the 100 things I need to do for work before 11:00am tomorrow…but for now, for the next 42 minutes or so, I am going to try to give it a rest. To breathe. In and out. Slowly. And maybe, just maybe, get some sleep.

Artwork by Georgiana Chitac. View more of her beautiful work here.

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My Own Vanilla Sky

If you haven’t seen the movie Vanilla Sky, I can’t really recommend it. It is a weird movie, and I am not a fan of Tom Cruise. Not even a little bit- I never have been. But somehow, a few years back, while on one of my countless business trips, I ended up in a hotel with jet lag and Vanilla Sky was the best thing on tv that night.

So, the premise (basically) is this: A man meets the woman of his dreams and she feels the same way. It is amazing-once-in-a-lifetime love; it is just the beginning for both of them. Then, somehow, his ex talks him into getting into her car so she can take him on what she hopes will be the last ride of both of their lives. She plunges the car off a bridge. She is killed. He is disfigured. 

He goes back to his true love and tries to recapture what they had. At first she is hesitant and feels betrayed by what happened. She refuses. But finally, she relents and their lives are better than they ever dreamed. He has a surgery that miraculously fixes him back to almost new. She loved him through everything. Happily Ever After. 

Then, at some point, he realizes it has all been a dream. What he thought was happening ended after the accident. He lost his love. Lost all the beauty he thought he had been living.

There are a few more twists and turns in there, but that is what I took away from it when I saw it, and for my purposes here, that’s the gist. The reason I have walked you through the storyline of a movie you really needn’t bother seeing is that lately, I have been haunted a little by the thought that somehow, I am living under my own Vanilla Sky.

Yes, that’s crazy. My brain knows that (most of the time). But there are times I wake up in the middle of the night sweating, shaking, and feverishly digging through the covers to find my husband. And sometimes, I don’t have to be woken from a nightmare, sometimes the thought crosses my mind in broad daylight on a random Wednesday when I am in the middle of my workday.

The depression that held me captive for the better part of my life was deep and strong. As much as I shared with friends, therapists, and family members, no one can truly know what it was like to suffer through decades of fighting every single day to just survive. I can honestly say that during those years—all of them—there was barely a day that went by when I didn’t think of suicide. Sometimes events triggered those feelings- family struggles, work stress, breakups—but those events were just the straw that broke the camel’s back. The day to day pain was more than I could stand. I am shocked sometimes that I came through it at all.

So, now I have all these things I thought I would never have. I have beaten the depression that I thought would be a lifelong companion. I have met and married the love of my life- and have found in him someone who loves me the way I have always dreamed of being loved. I love him more every single day. I live in a beautiful home with our dog Bear, three cats, and we are only steps away from the ocean.

At times, it almost seems too good to be true.

I worry that because I didn’t value my life for so long- that in the cosmic order of things- I will be punished for those thoughts-for thinking my life wasn’t worth living. 

I worry that somehow, it did end back there. In some screwed up purgatory like existence, this isn’t all real.

Are you convinced I have lost my mind yet?

To be clear-I don’t spend all my time worrying or in this state. I go to work every day, walk the dog, cook dinner, laugh—a lot, enjoy the days. It is just in quiet moments when my mind trails off, when I think how lucky and happy I feel now, I let my thoughts wander—and go to these places.

I think part of it was that I had convinced myself of so many things over the years. After so many parts of my life seemed to fail, and after a really long time of feeling so alone and on my own, I stopped believing in a lot of things. Love, happiness, and really feeling a purpose again. I have gotten large doses of all of that in a short amount of time- so it is almost a shock to my system.

Depression is also more than a dark cloud or sad moods. It is something that inhabited me—something I had to rid myself of through therapy and medication and a slow rebuilding of my self esteem. Over dinner the other night, I told my husband that as much as I wish we had met earlier and had even longer together, I am so glad we met when we did. In darker times, I wouldn’t have been ready, I hadn’t made myself whole yet. All of this could have slipped by. I had to get through everything and come out the other side on my own steam to be where I am now—with him.

Nothing in my life is perfect. Shea and I argue at times, and we have both had to adjust to living with someone after years of being single. My workdays aren’t always great, and the house is a mess most of the time. 

When I worry, or wake up lost, or let my mind wander too far away, Shea takes my hand and brings me back here to where we are now.

And tonight, under a sky that is as black as ink and lit with a thousand stars, I know it is all real.  It is the most wonderful, imperfect life I could have hoped for.

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Relocation

Last year, after a horrible experience moving, I swore it would be years (and years) before I would ever undertake another relocation of any kind. And then, a series of unexpected wonderful things happened. In the midst of all that happiness, a move didn’t seem quite as daunting. And I wasn’t doing it alone this time.

So, with move #42 (ok, I am not sure of the number, but that doesn’t seem far off) behind me, I now reside in a beautiful home with my fiancée which is only a five minute walk from the ocean. I have felt as if it was almost too much happiness for me to handle.

I know that sounds ridiculous, and maybe even ungrateful—which would be completely false. I am so happy and so grateful for every minute of it. I don’t take one moment for granted. What I have been doing, much to my fiancee’s dismay, is waiting for the other shoe to drop. I have never felt like a lucky person—even remotely so—and all this good fortune is daunting. I can’t believe so many wonderful things could be happening—that they can keep on happening—without me having to pay somehow…without some sad news to even it all out.

Being a worrier by nature, I know the pitfalls of this kind of thinking. But, as sad as this sounds, I have never been this happy and the fear of losing it is with me constantly.

I have been trying to do better, to just live in the moment and take it all in. Every day I wake up and have another day without some surprise disaster, I gain a little more faith that I can trust everything. I trust my fiancée completely, it is more of the worry of life interfering. And in addition to being a worrier, I have an incredibly creative imagination, so I imagine all kinds of things happening that could turn my life upside down. It is some weird safety system I have locked into my psyche…if I think and worry about something—it won’t happen. As in, if I imagine all the worst-case scenarios, I have myself “covered”. I won’t be blindsided, I will be safe.

I know there are no true safe places in life. Anything can happen at any moment. Just as I never would have believed a year ago that today I would be planning my wedding. At the beach. Where I now live. Where I have a new job I love, and a fiancée who loves me just as I am, quirks, flaws and all.

Thank goodness chance things happen.

Thank goodness life isn’t predictable.

It is all chance, circumstance, and a little bit of luck. Nothing I can control from here. Nothing that worrying will solve.

For now, I will walk down to the beach, feel the sand between my toes, breathe in the salty air and just say…thank goodness.

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The Weight of Worry

I can imagine a thousand things. My worst nightmares coming true. A scarier outcome than is even possible. I can go night after night without sleep counting the minutes while fretting about everything under the sun. And all of this amounts to nothing. But worry has been my companion for more years than I can count.

I come by it honestly. My mother’s worrying is crippling to her--inhibiting her life in ways I don’t even think she understands. It was by watching her that I was able to scale back my habits a great deal. I saw her day after day getting further weighed down by stressing, thinking, and fretting over things that were either out of her control, or too miniscule to really be a concern. It seemed as if she got smaller every day, swallowed up by the cloud of worry. It made her timid to try new things, to go places, to do things she had always wanted to do. It seemed better to stay safe at home and not risk harm or making mistakes.

Until I was in high school, that was pretty much me, too. I limited myself to things I knew and trusted—never venturing more than a few feet out of my comfort zone. And then I realized I was still worrying incessantly. Even in my supposed “safe zone”, I was losing sleep and having panic attacks. I saw the fruits of my mother’s constant state of anxiety. Miraculously, I was able to reign in some of the intensity, and somehow choose my battles with worry.

It’s almost funny that the more I have had on me—the less I started to worry. In college I was working three jobs, trying to come to terms with the reality of my family problems, becoming the navigator of my own journey—all of it overwhelming. I believe it was definitely a choice of sink or swim. And to even tread water, I had to realize that staying up all night worrying wasn’t going to put money in the bank to pay my power bill. I remember so often saying to myself, “you are doing the best you can, that is all you can do.” It might not have helped my finances or my understanding of my family, but it helped keep me a little closer to sanity, and gave me a few more hours of sleep each night.

But, even at my best, I am a bigger worrier than most and I hate the lessons worry teaches me.

I have learned from worry that nine times out of ten, doing what you love-even what you are meant to do- isn’t going to pay the bills. I know some have made it happen, but for me that hasn’t quite worked out. I have also learned that the financial worry of pursuing those dreams can take away from what you wanted in the first place. That doesn’t mean my dreams are dying, it just means I am realizing they may have to always be an after-hours pursuit instead of the main game.

I have also learned that there is no worry worse than financial worry. From my own experience and my friends' experiences as we have all been affected by the economy, it is the worst form of stress. In so many ways you are helpless, and the ride downhill only accelerates with each passing day.

Over the last few weeks, I have realized that I have let my stress and worry creep in to my happiness. Right now, I do have a lot to be happy about, in more than one area, my life is good—actually great. All of the rest of it will work out I am sure. But I noticed that I haven’t been able to write—it almost felt like a betrayal to let myself write instead of concentrating on my “bigger” concerns. It hit me today that the only way I can steer through everything with my soul intact is to keep doing the things I love--that are me. In fact, I may need to drown myself a little in the things that make me who I am. Better to drown there than the deep dark sea of apprehension.

At the end of all of this, when the dust finally settles and I have somehow solved the problems lurking around the corner, I will have the words I have written, the moments I have created and will, as always, look back and realize that was what got me through.

That is all I can do.

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