Why, then?

Why is it that when one reads about someone dying, too young, too special, too unique, too marvelous, too influential, the kind of person who makes you laugh louder and breath deeper and hug more fiercely - why is it that this story crushes me? Makes me so profoundly aware of how un-alive I am, even now?

The sensation of wading through high thigh deep water - that's my life. That's all I am doing. I am going through the motions, most of the time, of living a life but I'm not really, truly living a life. I'm just alive, kinda sorta. Thousands upon thousands of dollars of therapy - even really good therapy - makes me more aware of the lack. Makes me go, "oh, gee" when I have some moments of connection and joy, thinking how much I like this, want more, want life to be like this always.

But what the hell blocks me, then? What? Why does the pervading wisdom cling so tightly to ugh, blah, boring, stasis all the time?

I am so angry, really, about "my life," and I will chalk it up in part to that. Angry about where I live. Angry about giving up things I love. Angry about surroundings that I don't nestle in to. Angry about feeling alone, disconnected, lost, not at home. Angry. Profoundly sad, too, but mostly, seething with a quiet anger that I just do. not. let. out. Ever. Well, maybe once in a great while, when alone in my car, it seethes slowly to the surface and then explodes out with such ferocity I scare myself. I can shout like that? Who knew.

But I wasn't always this way, was I? Tendency toward depression, awkwardness, disconnect? Well sure, yeah. But sad, dozed out, neutral, not alive? Not really, no. I had some zest in Vermont, I know I did. I know it's not all rosey memory. Some of that emotion, that remembrance, is real. I had some spunk, some spark. I shook my butt down State Street with the girls. And I loved it. Shyly, but loved it. And I spoke up, spoke out, spoke my mind. Had people, had places to go, routines, things I liked, things I loved. Community, of sorts.

It is so, so past time to get the hell out of here. Here where I don't belong. Here where I don't fit in. Here where I'm barely alive. Here where I have no friends. Here where my passion is squelched. Here where the greatest truths of myself are slapped aside time and again and the core of me is ignored and unacknowledged.

Go forward, they say. I sure want to. I want to live. More importantly, I want to LIVE. To live my life, to be alive and flourishing, to be smiling, to enjoy the day to day dance with the universe. Not this wading through ocean waste of time waste of life nonsense. I want to have a spark again.

I don't want to fade away never having lived well. Never having mattered. I want to live a life that makes people say, she lived well. Not in a superficial way, but in a way that matters - that helps the community, that shares love with others, that cares, that nurtures, that gives, that sparkles.

I need, so desperately, to wake up and come alive and just be. Be here. A here of my own design, a here where I belong, a here where I have a community, where I can count and share and make a difference and joyously LIVE.

unstuck

Just because you are feeling stuck in the mud? Write a blog post. Do not wallow in self sustaining sad feelings of loserdom. Nope. Log in, type some words, strive to get the hell over yourself.

Boredom. Disconnect.

At least there is a good meal and a good movie later, right?

Gray and hazy doesn't help. Hershey's kisses doesn't help. Neglect and poor self care doesn't help.

Okay, I threw out the rest of the bag of hershey's kisses, so at least I won't eat any more of those.

Figure out the budget so you can get the darn sports bra for running.

Positive forward motion beats negative stagnation.

but deep down, a reset button is not the answer

The feeling that you have when you wish powerfully for a do-over? It's draining. Or perhaps, not so much a true do-over, but rather a second try. Or the ability to see an alternate course. The strength to say, TURN. Change. Try. Think differently. I have been making the same complaints and voicing the same concerns for a decade but the STOP. Now, go. moment has just not really truly happened.

When will it happen? When I sell my house I never really felt at home in (and for a huge loss, of course; the joys of the market)? When I decorate and paint my 'new' house? Will I feel at home there? Will I feel like I've found my place there?

Because in truth, that's all I really want. My place. My place in my home, my life, my community, with my friends. Room for my joys and interests, room to give of myself and be a part of things, room to laugh and feel at home.

Ten years lonely, ten years sad. For what?

But how to I turn my course - that's the problem. I can express, I hate it here, with more volume and energy than I knew I possessed. But that doesn't move me an inch in a direction of any kind. It just digs me deeper.

And in truth, I do mostly know that this is not it. Ten years of this is not it.

And now, I really don't care about taking a loss on the house. I don't care.  I want out of this place, out of this reality not of my choosing, out of feeling like a square peg surrounded by people who don't get me and don't want to get me. A place where I cannot be myself in any capacity. A place where I am so very, very alone and have been hurt so very much.

Some days I want to tear down buildings and trees and pull my hair out. You cannot really see that, though; I keep every ounce of hope and saddness and anger and frustration and disappointment and wishing and desperation carefully bottled up behind my mask of a face, because there is no damn room for any of it. Shut up, deal, take care of everything, and give up.

How do you move forward when you feel like you've given up everything at 38 years of age? When you won't get one single thing of substance you wish for? When you will never get to be yourself, feel relaxed, feel happy, feel at peace? Never?

reset, right?

But not really, going back eliminates the experience of ten years and the power to recognize the NEVER AGAINs in my experience. As well as the things that matter, even if it is mostly by the pain of their absence. So, not a do-over. But a turn, change, energize, do it freaking NOW.

but how, right? If I knew that, I wouldn't be here.

april is a long time after february. it is also national grilled cheese month.

This afternoon, I read a journal I kept my freshman year of college. It was during the first semester, as part of a requirement for my bio class (oddly enough). It is mostly filled with longing for home and friends and animals and family. And comfort food. It is easy to see why the freshman poundage most definitely found me - "had frosted mini wheats and a blueberry bagel for lunch today." Seriously, 18 year old Jen, you really did?

I was funny at times. I can recognize that. I was also probably quite lost and sad, that shines through. I can see where I elected to simply not touch on the most traumatic experience of my young life (my horse died). A passing mention, that's all - too difficult to deal with.

As I begin to creep toward my 20th class reunion, it becomes increasingly compelling to take some stock of myself. It's an interesting process. I recall sitting alone at lunch in high school, ditched by my friends, embarrassed, picked on by the cool kids a the table who wanted the seats I was saving so desperately. My story to myself for 20 years - well, of course they ditched me. Weirdo. Awkward. Ugh, her. Let's sit here, she didn't see us. Right? The guy says he would have just been pissed off at the ditching friends. The therapist says, could there have been another story?

So, could I perhaps try to shift more and more in the direction where actions of 17 year olds have really little to do with who I am at 38? I like that notion.

I said in my later journal pages such glorious phrases as "righteous babe" and "wildwoman."

Live up to 24 year old hopes, babe.