Starting Over
It's been over a year since I sat down to write a blog post. Despite my best intentions, I find it far too easy to fall silent, to stop putting words together to tell stories, because I'm still, after everything, unsure of the stories I truly want to tell.
The last year has been concentrated self-discovery. I completed some rather vital therapy in December, launching myself into a spiritual re-awakening so powerful I'm still having new aspects of myself revealed to me, almost daily.
Like most growth, most of what I'm finding out is positive, empowering stuff that raises me up and pushes me to become shinier, better than before. But there is the dark side of truly knowing myself and I'm sad to report, despite all my creativity, my love and my kindness, I'm still a misguided human who isn't sure of her own path. I'm almost forty. There doesn't seem to be a reasonable way to change that about myself. For someone who always thought, in the end, I would matter and be heard, possibly even admired, it was a hard pill to swallow. Popped that delusional bubble fairly quick, didn't it?
On my good days, I'm okay with this. It makes me human, makes me capable of performing pure acts of love on a small scale, really mattering to the people in my limited circle. I matter here, just like you matter in your world. We are all significant in that way.
The bad days? Well, they pick at me, wearing me down and making me doubt my suburban life and my inability to miraculously recreate a new life from the middle of this one. If it wasn't functioning, merely a shell of a life, I could smash it down and build anew, but this family that I have - my husband, daughter, cat, dog, and fish - we're happy and thriving. There's no sense in wrecking everything because of mild discontent.
So I keep adding and subtracting things until my life fits better. Until I fit better.
The last year has been concentrated self-discovery. I completed some rather vital therapy in December, launching myself into a spiritual re-awakening so powerful I'm still having new aspects of myself revealed to me, almost daily.
Like most growth, most of what I'm finding out is positive, empowering stuff that raises me up and pushes me to become shinier, better than before. But there is the dark side of truly knowing myself and I'm sad to report, despite all my creativity, my love and my kindness, I'm still a misguided human who isn't sure of her own path. I'm almost forty. There doesn't seem to be a reasonable way to change that about myself. For someone who always thought, in the end, I would matter and be heard, possibly even admired, it was a hard pill to swallow. Popped that delusional bubble fairly quick, didn't it?
On my good days, I'm okay with this. It makes me human, makes me capable of performing pure acts of love on a small scale, really mattering to the people in my limited circle. I matter here, just like you matter in your world. We are all significant in that way.
The bad days? Well, they pick at me, wearing me down and making me doubt my suburban life and my inability to miraculously recreate a new life from the middle of this one. If it wasn't functioning, merely a shell of a life, I could smash it down and build anew, but this family that I have - my husband, daughter, cat, dog, and fish - we're happy and thriving. There's no sense in wrecking everything because of mild discontent.
So I keep adding and subtracting things until my life fits better. Until I fit better.
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