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I haven’t been writing because I’m freaking out. (And, I’m freaking out for freaking out--guilt, embarrassment, shame, all of it). Please excuse the cuss words that follow.
As much as I’ve encircled myself with the “healing journey” and “it’s a marathon not a race” phrases, lately I’ve been feeling like they’re just a whole lot of bullshit hallmark card gimmicks (even though I know they’re not, on some level fluttering around my brain).
I’ve been telling myself, if I take the high road, if I put the love for my kids and my family and my friends first, everything else will fall into place. Don’t give in to pain and doubt and fear and anxiety. Because all those things are “bad” and love and reaching for the light is good.
And that’s noble and wonderful and lovely, except I feel myself crumbling along the way. The anxiety creeps in no matter how hard I struggle to believe in the good in this world. My ex still makes my kids feel like they can’t talk to me when they’re over there. He’s still charming the pants off the other parents at girl scouts or school or whatever. I still worry that I seem like the crazy one, even though I know what happened and I know what he did, but I’m supposed to move on and be the bigger person and be happy. For the kids’ sakes, for my sake, for all of our sakes.
Some days, I just don’t feel like a bigger person. Some days, I feel small and unsure and dissolving into little bits and pieces.
Some days, I wonder if all I know how to do is to feel shitty, how to survive, not thrive. How to raise myself out from emotional rubble, that my world is just a cycle of repeating emotional trauma. Build up a new world on a belief in love and good in the world, then see it crumble into ashes all over again. It’s okay, I tell myself, because I can rebuild out of the fire, I am the fire.
Some days, I feel like I’m so screwed up, that I don’t know how to be happy. Not going to lie—my heart has a deep black hole in it that I’ve been working on forever, it’s always there, and it’s probably how I ended up in my unhealthy relationships in the first place. I cover it up with overachieving at work and loving my girls fiercely and being the happy networker and fill in the blank. I cover it up by being remarried and trusting my hubby will be there for us, always and forever, and that’s a big step, too. I cover it up by reaching consistently for this “good” future, and I’m terrified it will fall apart, because inside, I feel like I’m falling apart.
So, this is why I haven’t been writing too much, the internal rollercoaster has been rocketing ahead full speed and I’m managing my anxiety as best as I can—with therapy, exercise, and that stupid belief that if I believe in the good in the world, goodness will follow. If my purpose here is to add a little light (instead of my black hole heart), light will follow. Stupid hope. Okay, sorry for calling you stupid. I guess it’s still there after all, even if I’m fraying at the edges.