I’ve been writing a lot about feeling lost. It’s a common theme for me. I grew up in a place I did not belong and think I’ve been trying to rectify that ever since. When you live in a small town that tends to share a singular ideology and identity, it can be quite jarring to a developing mind to be almost antithetical to the norm. I’m not the only one of course. There were a few of us and, thankfully, we did get out, but I believe we all were faced with two paths at that point: we would fiercely embrace our individualism and seek to protect it at all costs for the rest of our lives or we would forever be trying to fit our beautifully square bodies into round spaces. I’ve always been of the latter.
At the height of my drinking days, I spent 90% of my free time getting drunk in my apartment and on social media, namely Facebook, chatting with people who lived far away. Sometimes I would text, and sometimes those texts would be out of nowhere for the recipient and quickly devolve into an emotional unloading for which I am constantly, silently sorry about. But on social media, we can present whatever version of life we want, and so I did. I made my life in New York seem more interesting than it was. Made my relationships with people here appear more connected than they were. Expressed my world views in closely curated spaces. Took filtered selfies to appear more outwardly beautiful than I maybe was. Pretended to care about catching up with people I had known in previous lives, when really I was just madly lonely and this was my primary medium for connection. Real life in person connecting had become too hard for me. I was too clumsy, attached too quickly, too prone to say or do ridiculous things after a few rounds. It was easier to make believe a life. Continue reading
I recently found this piece while perusing through some files on my computer. It’s from November 2015 and is born of a relapse I had after my first, and longest, attempt at giving up booze and cigarettes. Suffice it to say, I was devastated and furious with myself. This is also before I was diagnosed with anxiety, so it is interesting to hear myself describe my mental state without fully understanding what was underneath.
I wish I could say that things got better after I wrote this. I wish I could say that everything I professed I would do in the last paragraph actually happened and it was the start of a path back towards health and recovery. In truth, this relapse was the beginning of a hellish year in which I slid further into alcohol abuse. My anxiety reached a fevered pitch during this time, and I was convinced I had either heart problems or very serious respiratory problems. Thankfully, it was neither, but my mental, emotional, and spiritual state took a beating. Continue reading
In two days, I am turning 36. I’ve never thought about this age specifically. It’s a good age, I suppose – a nice, divisible, thirty-something number of no particular importance. Except that’s now how it feels to me at all.
I dove headfirst into a pile of life changes at the start of 2017: I stopped drinking and, by the third week of January, smoked my last cigarette. I found out I was pregnant and will be birthing a girl child in September. I started this blog, which deserves more attention than it gets (but hey, get in line on the list of things for which that statement is also true). I’ve read more books for my own personal development and leisure this year than I have in the last five years combined. A “sane” person would look at this list and say, “Wow! Look at God! Won’t He do it.” Me? I panic. Continue reading