Therapy is hard.

 I first did therapy when I was diagnosed with cancer, 16 years ago, and I've done it on and off - mostly off - since then. 

But I'm determined to work through my garbage, because I'm tired of my old issues being the driving force in my life.

I got messages early in life that lasted well into my 40s that said if I wasn't perfect, I wasn't enough; those messengers said that if I didn't agree with them, I was wrong. Not just wrong - bad.

I was either good - compliant, agreeable, smiling, supportive, and absolutely without my own needs or desires if they were in the least bit of conflict with theirs. My time, interests, and ideas, needed to align. If I liked different food, I was mocked. If I liked different music, I was annoying and tasteless. If I liked different politics, I was an idiotic fool; if I had different dreams then I was a traitor to my family.

If I did what they wanted, I was good, and received approval, but I always knew that it wouldn't last, and that  in order for me to get that stamp of approval, I had to contort myself into a pretzel to get through my days, and it was exhausting, confusing, and ever so lonely.

I am estranged from those people now, and I doubt that I will ever be able to be in relationship with them again, because to do so hurts me and requires me to be someone I'm not. When the people who are supposed to love you best are those that hurt you and tell you that you are worthless, stupid, and shameful, well, there's nothing to be done but find a new way. I found that new way five years ago, and I'm proud of myself for having the courage to stand up, turn around, and face my future with truth and integrity. I'm not a pretzel anymore, and I no longer believe that my innate wishes and desires are bad, or that at my core, I'm bad.

But I've got work to do, anyway.

I am so far still from who I want to be, and the old messages still linger in my brain. Whenever I struggle, I hear them telling me that I'm bad, that I'm wrong, that I'll never amount to anything and "who do you think you are anyway" and "you think you're too good for us" and "persnickety".

So here I am, these old messages flaring up every time something goes in the least bit wrong, every time I have a smidgen of doubt about myself (all the time, for the record).

And I want to do better.

So back to therapy I go, dredging up old experiences and trying to understand how it is that I became the way I am, and how to let go of these ideas that do not serve me.

It's hard work. Remembering the things that have hurt me isn't a delightful experience... and I am doing it anyway. It's time to move past the old ways.

I know I can do better in my life, and I want to live with a heart at ease.

A heart that doesn't hurt too much to let a good man in.

So - therapy.

And it's hard.

Slogging and Joy

 I consider myself an incredibly optimistic person, but lately I am just slogging through my days.

Slogging at work.

Slogging at home.

Slogging through my dreams.

My energy levels are shockingly low, and I just feel worn out, no matter how much I try to rest. My body isn't helping: I can't remember the last time I slept through the night without awakening multiple times.

I have to keep reminding myself that it's temporary, that this too shall pass.

It helps to remember why I feel like this:

- Global pandemic (health risks, not traveling, not going to restaurants, theaters, etc.)

- Kid just left for college

- Single at 52, living alone (wait, this wasn't the plan!)

- thyroid issues (I get checked again next month)

- Back to school in a pandemic - the kids are needier than ever.

- Estrangement from parents and a recent particularly nasty interaction with my mother.

- Therapy. Oh, don't get me wrong: I'm a big believer in therapy, and I like my new therapist, but... it's hard. I'm facing The Big Stuff and it's exhausting.

So here I am, and it feels like every move is just slogging through the mud and slightly unbearable. Every step just feels a little heavier, and collectively, I just feel worn out.

But.

But I've been here before - the cancer years, the bad-marriage-then-divorce years. I made it to the other side then, and I will now, and the joy that comes after the storms is such a gift.

I'm trying to forgive myself for feeling so unenergetic, stuck, unmotivated, and sad. I'm trying to remind myself that this isn't because I'm a broken person, a terrible person, or an unworthy person. I'm feeling like this because things are legitimately hard right now.

I'm trying to remember that...

I'm good at my job and I'll find my way again.

I want Tessa to thrive in college, and for both of us to find a new way to co-exist.

When I'm ready, I'll go out there and find the right man to partner with, and appreciate the hell out of him (as he will me).

My estrangement from my family of origin is healthy. Agreeing to toxic behaviors isn't healthy, so even though I'm used to the dysfunctional way of being in the family, this is a much better choice for me, even if it hurts to not have family.

But today, I'm slogging, trying to remember the look of the sunrise, and the joys that are to come, trying to remember my energetic self and the life that awaits.

I guess I'll just slog my way through until the mud runs out, and then I'll walk on dry land again, change my clothes, and embrace the sunshine.

Soon, please.

Flying Solo

 A few weeks ago, my daughter and I got in the car - which I had packed with ten giant blue IKEA zipper bags full of bedding, clothes, shoes, and more, per the recommendations on Grown and Flown and Pinterest - and drove a couple of hours east... and I left her there.

This is the longest I've ever been apart from my girl, and I feel hollow and strange. We've done up to a week apart before, usually with lots of phone calls to check in, and I always knew at the end of the week she'd be back where she belonged, with me. But this time, she's where she belongs at college, and she'll never be home again in the way that she was before.

Now, she has two homes. My home will always be her place to land, and the room down the hall is still filled with her things, awaiting her return for holidays. But she and I both know that she has two homes now, and her growth and her future lies mostly in the other one at the moment.

This isn't a woe-is-me, I promise. I couldn't be happier for her, because she's out there trying to live her best life, trying to discover how to navigate when she's that much closer to adulthood. I am proud of her for finding her way, for being brave, for meeting new people and having a roommate for the first time (as an only child, I'm pretty sure this is a shock to her system!), for figuring out food cards and dorm rules and where her classes are on a campus, but she's ready. For whatever bumps she's experiencing, she's ready. She can do this.

And so can I - I hope.

Everyone talks about kids remaking themselves in college, and how much their parents miss them, but nothing prepared me entirely for the truly empty house I'm in. My canine companion might really be my best friend, because I feel really alone, despite the wonderful folks in my life.

No husband.

No family of origin.

None of Tessa's friends in and out all the time.

And a global pandemic that absolutely refuses to go away (and it feels like I'm the only one really worried about this winter - what if it's worse than last winter, despite the vaccinations?!). I'm being careful (it turns out that was a good idea - because I had Pfizer, and after 4 months it's at half effectiveness for preventing disease, and I'm with 150 kids a day at school in my crowded classroom).

So here I am, more solo than I've ever been. I'm of two minds about this: time to write! to be a superstar at work! to exercise more and more! to take classes! to visit art museums! to hike! to cook! to do house projects!

...and curl up in a ball, possibly in front of the television, and not get up.

Honestly, the jury's out.

What I did decide to do was start therapy again.

Mostly, I want to work out my family of origin stuff. When my mother was hospitalized recently I reached out to her, and as soon as we spoke, I regretted it. She brought up everything I've done to offend her in the past 20 or so years (we thought she could be on her deathbed, and she wanted to re-hash that I had not invited her to attend Tessa's birth... sigh). She said, "At least when I die, I guess I'll know you reached out once" (in a sad, dramatic, sighing voice) and when I pointed out that I've contacted her regularly - most recently to send a graduation announcement - she had no reply. She acted like it was confusing why we're estranged. I said "the door has always been open to see you again" and when she acted surprised I said, "All you and Dad need to do is agree to no name calling, belittling or yelling" and she said - in a surprisingly snotty voice, "OH! So you have BOUNDARIES now!" and did not agree to those boundaries and changed the subject.

I think of all of it, that last one was the toughest for me. I have the no-yelling-belittling-name-calling rule for EVERYONE I meet. Cashiers. Waiters. Passer by. Students. Friends. Strangers. Everyone. I feel like it's the absolute lowest bar in the world, but in my family it's simply too much, and for me to express a boundary is unacceptable, even when it's a lowest-of-the-low boundary.

So here I am. 52, solo, in therapy.

I am determined to get to the good stuff. The good stuff looks like an active life, close connections, meaning, and love. Romantic love, too. But I know I have to deal with my "stuff" before I'll be ready for that.

Sigh.

I think my first big leap now is to figure this out. Therapy. Journaling, Determination. Asking hard questions.

And then maybe the good stuff?