Long, hard road
It's no secret that I've been a bit lost for years. Since Gram died really. I spent a chunk of my life taking care of other people. I don't think I ever really thought about the moment in time when I would have to take care of myself.
Of course, I know the basics. Three squares a day, brush your teeth at least twice, always leave the house in clean underwear. All that stuff your parents teach you when you're a wee one. It never occurred to me that there would be a time when I would have to focus on myself and what I want from and for my life.
Gram knew that I didn't know; it's why she fought so hard to stay alive. She even once asked me, "But who's going to take care of you?" I didn't realize she wasn't asking how I'd survive; she was asking how I'd live.
I am still uncertain. Getting a job seemed to be the thing to do and, honestly, I would have been okay working anywhere as long as there was money for movies and cheese and crackers. I wouldn't necessarily have been satisfied, but I'd have been okay with that. Until I got my dream job. I loved my editor position in South Carolina. I had fun, I was productive, and I was good at it. It takes no special talent for me to sell books, something I've always done well merely because I'm a passionate reader and get excited by books I like. It did, however, take all the skills I enjoy having to do my job at CCM. And I loved every minute of it. Which ruined me.
When we finally got the house and I began working at the apartment complex, I knew I could do well in the job and would have been very good at it given the right tools and the chance to use those tools, but I wasn't enthralled with it. And when I was let go, it threw me for a loop. If I wasn't good enough to work there, where did I belong?
And then the disappointments, small and large, insignificant to all but me, began piling up and by January I was nothing but a huge wad of anger, guilt, shame, and hopelessness. Mix in a little Seasonal Affective Disorder and I wouldn't have cared if I'd died. I wasn't suicidal. I don't think that's ever an answer, but I certainly wouldn't have objected to a massive heart attack or something equally quick and painless.
I don't want to die. I don't want to be angry, guilty, shamed or hopeless anymore. I am sick of being a misery chick. The last few days have been something of a wake-up call, where I've been forced to deal look at, accept, deal with, and try to figure out my behavior for the last year. My coping mechanisms are, of course, food, and shutting down. I try to process internally and that doesn't work for the people around me.
So, I'm tired of failing and sitting in my house, bemoaning my loneliness and sadness. I got up this morning with a determination to live my life as opposed to existing. This is why I asked for love yesterday on FB. I needed a boost to push me in the right direction. It's been a long time coming, but I think I have an answer to Gram's question now.
The person taking care of me is, finally, me.
Of course, I know the basics. Three squares a day, brush your teeth at least twice, always leave the house in clean underwear. All that stuff your parents teach you when you're a wee one. It never occurred to me that there would be a time when I would have to focus on myself and what I want from and for my life.
Gram knew that I didn't know; it's why she fought so hard to stay alive. She even once asked me, "But who's going to take care of you?" I didn't realize she wasn't asking how I'd survive; she was asking how I'd live.
I am still uncertain. Getting a job seemed to be the thing to do and, honestly, I would have been okay working anywhere as long as there was money for movies and cheese and crackers. I wouldn't necessarily have been satisfied, but I'd have been okay with that. Until I got my dream job. I loved my editor position in South Carolina. I had fun, I was productive, and I was good at it. It takes no special talent for me to sell books, something I've always done well merely because I'm a passionate reader and get excited by books I like. It did, however, take all the skills I enjoy having to do my job at CCM. And I loved every minute of it. Which ruined me.
When we finally got the house and I began working at the apartment complex, I knew I could do well in the job and would have been very good at it given the right tools and the chance to use those tools, but I wasn't enthralled with it. And when I was let go, it threw me for a loop. If I wasn't good enough to work there, where did I belong?
And then the disappointments, small and large, insignificant to all but me, began piling up and by January I was nothing but a huge wad of anger, guilt, shame, and hopelessness. Mix in a little Seasonal Affective Disorder and I wouldn't have cared if I'd died. I wasn't suicidal. I don't think that's ever an answer, but I certainly wouldn't have objected to a massive heart attack or something equally quick and painless.
I don't want to die. I don't want to be angry, guilty, shamed or hopeless anymore. I am sick of being a misery chick. The last few days have been something of a wake-up call, where I've been forced to deal look at, accept, deal with, and try to figure out my behavior for the last year. My coping mechanisms are, of course, food, and shutting down. I try to process internally and that doesn't work for the people around me.
So, I'm tired of failing and sitting in my house, bemoaning my loneliness and sadness. I got up this morning with a determination to live my life as opposed to existing. This is why I asked for love yesterday on FB. I needed a boost to push me in the right direction. It's been a long time coming, but I think I have an answer to Gram's question now.
The person taking care of me is, finally, me.