in excess, I exist
When I woke up yesterday, I didn't set out to log three miles--the first miles in months. I didn't set out to take a two-hour nap at 6pm. I didn't set out to sit with my thoughts and feelings--just to acknowledge their validity. I didn't set out to do anything except take care of myself. That's the goal each day.
I don't always succeed.
Last Wednesday, I received the last, "We appreciate your time but regret to inform you that..." email from my first round of job applications. I thanked the sender for the consideration & her offer to keep my resume on file. Pressing "Move To: Operation Get Out of Iowa" stung more than reading it...the first, second, third, and fourth times. This position screamed my name. I felt a pull toward the agency similarly to only once before, when I discovered YPN which will forever remain my favorite nonprofit and work family. Alas, I couldn't find a reasonable way to move soon enough to start. At first, that hurt. It still does. But what heals is accepting that "right person/place, wrong time" is applicable.
One day I will live in Portland, and I will at the very least provide my time to New Avenues.
Until then, I will continue to remind myself of nothing and everything in time. How it pauses just enough for us to create a perfect memory of how the snow tasted on the day we kissed the person we love. How it speeds up too much when we have fun. How it stops when we lose loved ones. How it goes on, always, despite the great or terrible things that happen in it. Why don't we do that?
why don't we?
Even on my best days, I still battle with intrusive thoughts, anxious moments, and depression symptoms. I fear that people forget that--that my mental illnesses still exist when I'm laughing through tears or smiling brighter than the sun, just as my asthma still exists when my lungs aren't trying to cough themselves out of my chest.
On my best days, I still find faults in succumbing to the whelm of strong emotions and imbalanced chemicals. I don't use my illnesses as excuses, but sometimes I fault them in pressuring my negative actions. Yesterday was a good day. I chose self-care. I reminded myself of my worth. I spoke with loved ones. I went outside. I cleaned my room, bedding, and clothes. I did all the things!
Yet I still pressed send on a message I wish I could rescind. I still punched my pillows, wishing they would fight back, wanting them to give me a reason to push harder. I still fell asleep crying, woke up six times during the night with tears drying in the dark caves below my eyes, and choked on air after holding my breath for far too long. I still felt terrible--and that's okay.
I reminded myself that I've survived 100 percent of my worst days.
Then I woke up today, feeling restless and anxious (I arrived at work 30 minutes early because I had an unshakable fear that something would cause tardiness), yet determined to show up and do all the things.
That's how I end my therapy sessions with New Girl. When she asks what I plan to do in the time between sessions, I smile and whisper-shout, "All the things!" The vagueness leaves just enough room for interpretation. Will the things be meal prepping, eating full meals, and following my self-care plan? Or will the things be depression naps, mindless swiping, and random plans with friends and strangers alike? Because New Girl can't deny it: those could be The Things. I can make The Things anything I want. We've never defined it.
In every other aspect of my life, that would bother me. I crave definition. I want to be able to answer, "Who are you?" to every person on the planet with confidence, with relation to everyone I know or have yet to meet, every place I've visited or only met with in my dreams.
I don't always succeed.
Last Wednesday, I received the last, "We appreciate your time but regret to inform you that..." email from my first round of job applications. I thanked the sender for the consideration & her offer to keep my resume on file. Pressing "Move To: Operation Get Out of Iowa" stung more than reading it...the first, second, third, and fourth times. This position screamed my name. I felt a pull toward the agency similarly to only once before, when I discovered YPN which will forever remain my favorite nonprofit and work family. Alas, I couldn't find a reasonable way to move soon enough to start. At first, that hurt. It still does. But what heals is accepting that "right person/place, wrong time" is applicable.
One day I will live in Portland, and I will at the very least provide my time to New Avenues.
Until then, I will continue to remind myself of nothing and everything in time. How it pauses just enough for us to create a perfect memory of how the snow tasted on the day we kissed the person we love. How it speeds up too much when we have fun. How it stops when we lose loved ones. How it goes on, always, despite the great or terrible things that happen in it. Why don't we do that?
why don't we?
---
Even on my best days, I still battle with intrusive thoughts, anxious moments, and depression symptoms. I fear that people forget that--that my mental illnesses still exist when I'm laughing through tears or smiling brighter than the sun, just as my asthma still exists when my lungs aren't trying to cough themselves out of my chest.
On my best days, I still find faults in succumbing to the whelm of strong emotions and imbalanced chemicals. I don't use my illnesses as excuses, but sometimes I fault them in pressuring my negative actions. Yesterday was a good day. I chose self-care. I reminded myself of my worth. I spoke with loved ones. I went outside. I cleaned my room, bedding, and clothes. I did all the things!
Yet I still pressed send on a message I wish I could rescind. I still punched my pillows, wishing they would fight back, wanting them to give me a reason to push harder. I still fell asleep crying, woke up six times during the night with tears drying in the dark caves below my eyes, and choked on air after holding my breath for far too long. I still felt terrible--and that's okay.
I reminded myself that I've survived 100 percent of my worst days.
Then I woke up today, feeling restless and anxious (I arrived at work 30 minutes early because I had an unshakable fear that something would cause tardiness), yet determined to show up and do all the things.
That's how I end my therapy sessions with New Girl. When she asks what I plan to do in the time between sessions, I smile and whisper-shout, "All the things!" The vagueness leaves just enough room for interpretation. Will the things be meal prepping, eating full meals, and following my self-care plan? Or will the things be depression naps, mindless swiping, and random plans with friends and strangers alike? Because New Girl can't deny it: those could be The Things. I can make The Things anything I want. We've never defined it.
In every other aspect of my life, that would bother me. I crave definition. I want to be able to answer, "Who are you?" to every person on the planet with confidence, with relation to everyone I know or have yet to meet, every place I've visited or only met with in my dreams.
---
By the end of 2019, I want to tell everyone that I am a writer. I won't lie; I do it now. But I want to say it with confidence. I want to comfortably scream that into the void rather than, "Everything is awful!" The latter is enjoyable--and honest--but I want it to change.
"Everything is awful except for my writing! Read it! Tell your friends!" I want that to be my whisper-shout. I want to build my confidence to take its own seat at the table. I want to develop my voice to reach the world.
In her new book, Abby Wambach says, "Imperfect men have been empowered and permitted to run the world since the beginning of time. It's time for imperfect women to grant themselves permission to join them." Frankly, that's beautiful. It's exactly the type of motivation I'd share with other women--so why wouldn't I share it with myself?
Why don't we do that more often?
When I attended a Kamala Harris town hall in February, I bumped into a professor from my alma mater. We both exclaimed, "OhMyGoshHowAreYou," as if it exists as one word or that we both don't have degrees related to the English language. She introduced me to her daughter, and we sat together. We discussed politics, of course, but more importantly we discussed people. We asked for updates since my graduation, goals for our futures, and opinions on how we can change the world. We all smiled and laughed and hand-gestured excitement. I wish I'd taken notes, recorded quotes.
When Senator Harris spoke, I did. An anecdote about her mother hit me hardest:
"My mother would say, 'Well what are you gonna do about it?'
So I decided to run for President of the United States."
I remember the feeling of my lips forming a strong, grimace of a smile. I wondered what that level of determination felt like. Now, I wonder why I didn't attempt to climb toward it sooner.
Who's with me?
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