I’m not too thrilled with me so chances are, I’ll never be happy with you.
I don’t want to do all the work it will take to get what I want.
Flirting is fun, dating is tolerable, relationships are a burden.
I’m a good starter but a terrible finisher.
I wrote those words five years ago, and it's sad that it still rings true today. Eighty percent of the time I'm not happy with myself, with my choices, with my life, and I let it drag me down into a spiral of self-pity, depression, sloth, and regret.
There is a body I want. There are books I need to write. There is [maybe] a man out in The Universe that is supposed to be with me. There is a legacy I want to leave.
But everyday I get up and my brain says, "No, maybe tomorrow. Today we're going to stay in this rut and be sad." And I can't figure out at what point in my life I was taught to hate myself. Where is the disconnect between me and all those other people who stick to a workout schedule and write for two hours a day and manage to maintain positive romantic relationships? Where was I when they were passing out the guidebook to my potential?
So now I'm here, in what I call starting over, yet again. I say that because when my grandmother died in 1999, I swore her life would not have been lived in vain, that I would be a great success in her honor, for all the sacrifices she had to make for us. I quit my job, finished my undergraduate degree program, and probably made a million lists that would serve to get me on track.
And then quickly went back to my bullshit life.
In 2005 I ended my marriage and again, decided THIS IS MY MOMENT. I took writing gigs and did my version of networking and lost some weight and stood on my own and twirled in the streets throwing my proverbial hat in the air.
And again, quickly found myself back in my bullshit life.
Since then I've made some small strides- got fit (then unfit, booo!), wrote some stuff that got published, made a name for myself among indie writers in NYC, and I let this comfort zone engulf me. I didn't push myself to go to the next level of health or career or relationships, just cruised along.
And then my dad (and Prince, and a friend from school) died and I was back. In. My. Bullshit. Life.
I stayed in the grieving place and gave no shits about anything that would positively serve my goals or me. For two whole months, at the end of a whole year of living in limbo, watching my dad succumb to cancer, I tried to let myself die. On the flights to-and-from his funeral I wrote a whole book on how I was turning my back on life, because what was the point of anything if the only person who raised me up on a loving pedestal of perfection was gone? What was the point of this life?
I still don't know the answer. I still stand too close to the subway platform edge some days. Occasionally I want to shred every draft of every word I've ever written, and dunk my computer in a tub of water. I still struggle with knowing when to push away from the table. And romance doesn't seem like a real thing to me. I honestly believe you're all lying when you say you're in love, because I don't understand the feeling or the concept.
But last week I went to the gym, on my own, three times, because, according to SCIENCE, the endorphins will improve my mood. And the mood...the MOOD is what's praying for death. The MOOD is what controls whether I have a salad or fast food for lunch. Or whether I move my novel forward or just watch all seven season of "Gilmore Girls" on Netflix YET AGAIN. Or whether I text that perfectly nice guy back or ghost him.
So I went to the gym. Three times. And I went again yesterday.
I will take this tiny victory and roll it into other tiny victories until...well, until the MOOD let's me understand love, and that I'm worthy of it, from me. I can only guess that everything else will fall into place from there.
I'm on a journey to be a great finisher, one who makes potentials a reality, who looks in the mirror and loves who she sees. For real this time.
And for better or worse, you're all coming along with me.
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