Note: this post is not a solicitation for advice. It’s rambling, cleansing and only very lightly considered/edited musing…what blogging was once upon a time intended to be.
I’d like to blame my restlessness on something. Anything would do, but just now I’m focused on the mythical perfect plot of land we’ve been hunting hungrily for over the past two years in North Carolina.
It’s not that though. I know it’s not. At least, not entirely.
Hell, my old boss/surrogate father wrote in a birthday card he gave me three years ago “To my favorite restless soul…” which really, says it all.
I know this scares the crap out of The Mc – knowing no matter what he does/we do I *might* not be happy. I am, I’ll continue to be…it’s just compartmentalized and I think there might always be something “missing” with me. I’m broken.
We were visiting our storage unit(s) a month or so ago – pulling out one big item to give to a friend – jostling remaining items around ala Tetris in hopes of consolidating from 2 units to 1. In hopes of making us feel less disorganized, I suppose; and less greedy for hanging on to so much crap we’ll probably never need.
Moving, stacking, shuffling, cursing, sweating. I grabbed one of my see-through plastic file totes to stack it on one of its brethren and noticed something pressing up against its wall trying to claw its way out.
Immediately I knew (my heart knew) it was a list I’d made many, many, MANY moons ago – before the gray, the love, the children. I popped the top of the bin open, snatched up the sheet and hastily folded it before shoving it into my pocket.
We kept playing Tetris.
Was the list what I’ve been looking for? Was the empty space in me the sum of the items I’d listed years before that I couldn’t remember to recreate and hadn’t checked off my life “to-do” list yet?
I snuck a look at the list a few days later.
Did that. Did that. Didn’t do that but don’t want to anymore. Did that.
Damn. The list wasn’t going to fix me after all.
It’s months later, and I’m breaking bread with my old friend Paulie – who is also (and I don’t think he’ll mind me saying so) also infinitely restless and terminally lost.
It occurs to me there are only a handful of things that are different now than they were during that pocket of time I look back on now and think I was “happy”:
- I was not blissfully happy in a loving relationship, and didn’t have kids I adore
- I’m not volunteering nearly as much
- I’m not running (see also: bad knees, inertia)
- I’m not up to my blue-green-gray (depending on the day) eyeballs in debt, struggling to get by but insisting on “treating” myself, regardless
- I’m sans my close knit group of girlfriends
- I’m not seeing Melinda (my therapist) once a week
Is that it? Am I only happy when I’m in a state of chaos?
If you’re the child of alcoholics, you already know the answer: please turn to page 23 to continue your adventure.
Busy busy busy.
I can hear my friend Harry mocking me and I picture him with a goblet of red wine in his hand, smirking after he over pronounces the “s” as a “z” and rolls his eyes. Mocking me with love.
It seems like I’m always going. Somewhere, something. Appearances, I call them (also mocking, also Harry’s voice). It’s not that any of these things are void of substance, per se (as I tread carefully, trying not to offend) or that I don’t enjoy them. Rather, it’s that I do enjoy them but they leave me drained, tired, and behind on things I like to think I’d rather be doing. Things that in reality, given the time, I probably wouldn’t be doing anyway. I’d be twittering and naval gazing and eating German Chocolate cake for dinner and wondering why according to the BMI I’m 2lbs away from being grossly overweight (Srsly. No joke.).
It’s easy enough to correct, everyone says. You know what? Everyone can suck it.
“All you have to do
to change your life
is to change your mind
…it really is that simple
But it isn’t always
easy ” – Merrit Malloy
I don’t want to change…exactly. I want it all. Even if I know I’ll still be lost.
Was I happier when I was “poor”? Was it because I spent less time on the run, and more time running? Was it because I spent more time being alone because I couldn’t afford to go out and play? Was it because I spent more time in my head and less time being over stimulated? Was it because I was writing more and purging demons regularly? Was it because I was closer to my mourning and my grief? Was it because I was physically healthier? Was it because I had a deeper, more aching and desperate appreciation for what little I had?
“What would you do if all your dreams suddenly came true?”
Me? I’d probably be miserable.
(To be continued. There’s more, but this is already too long…so I’ll break the rest of my thoughts into another post.)