I’ve gone missing. I’m slowly drowning in my everyday-ness. I need excitement, I need travel, I need to get out of the damn house.
I want to go to school. I have been batting this idea around for what…15 years? It’s time. Now as to what I actually want to study? That’s been also batted around for those 15 years. I’ve toyed with the idea of becoming a teacher, a nurse, an anthropologist, a programmer, a writer. I’ve thought about just going and letting whatever happens, happen. But I can’t seem to get up off my dead, lazy ass and just go do it! Part of this is because people – especially people in crowds – make me nervous. I have this paranoid suspicion that they’re all, well…looking at me. Laughing. Pointing. Intellecutally, I know they’re not. But that doesn’t ease the fear.
And I’ve had years of this to build up that internal monologue; defense. So I think, “today I am going to go to the college and get some financial aid, maybe talk to a counseler. I’ll take J to work and the baby and I will just go.” But somewhere in the deep recesses of my head, a split second dialogue takes place. “Going to the big campus place to talk to people.”
“what’ll we do?”
“do we really want to go?”
“well, its not like we actually have the money to go”
“but we could get financial aid”
“not with our bad credit”
“but that’s what financial aid is all about”
“but they only give that to certain people – certainly not to almost middle aged women who’ve been out school”
“besides, we haven’t taken that big test yet”
“what big test?”
and on and on and on….Sometimes, I think I can hear it going on. Sometimes it just generates a huge feeling of helplessness, hopelessness.
I can’t get out of this morass of settling down. I do NOT want to settle down. I do not want to live my life as its been going. Certainly, there are ways out. Some of them I know of — and just don’t want to take. Some of them are hidden, and I cannot find the night vision goggles.
I can generally squash any idea of moving, getting out by the following little thought process….
“I wouldn’t feel so helpless/hopeless/trapped/scared/whatever if I could just lose XXX pounds. Because if I looked better, I would feel better. And then I wouldn’t have anything to fear.”
What’s the matter with me that I can’t accept that how I look is how I look? That I am the same person, really no matter if I weigh 120 or 1020? :I I am broken. And not in a laying on the floor, sad yet sexy, in moody blue lighting kind of way. There’s some jagged bit of something lodged in my mind that tells me that no matter who tells me otherwise – they are viewing me through some skewed lens.
Now, I know that I have many things going for me. A pretty decent marriage; a fantastic, smart, beautiful, talented daughter; an improving relationship with my family — I feel that I am personally lacking. That all of these admittedly wonderful things are external to me. And somewhow, not really of me.
I am hollow. A shell of the vibrant me that I used to be. Care, stress, mortgages have seemingly stripped all of the laughing me away. I cannot remember the last time I deep down belly laughed in the company of friends. Laughed until I was crying. Until my sides ached.
I want me back.