Tag: social anxiety
The Addition of All the Many Moments and Sum of All Their Parts
There will come a time when I won’t care what others think, or what I think for that matter. That time may be coming sooner than I think, for I’m far too tired to care this much for much longer. It seems caring about much of anything puts me at a disadvantage in the grande scheme of things. I still watch in awe how the confident function, and examine my reflection in the mirror and attempt to gaze back with half that confidence. I always end up half laughing , half crying. I’ll never be that.
It is difficult living in this bubble of brilliant type As with a few amongst them who have figured out how to play the game and get ahead. I’m trying to do just that. My head keeps spinning. I don’t know why I can’t think like everyone else thinks. Logically. In a structured way. There is structure in there somewhere, past the swirling seas of patterns and potential. I’m trying to find it. Structure, and release. How to offer high quality with little emotional cost. How? I don’t know yet. People do it, so it must be possible.
I feel guilty I have little emotional energy to spare for the actual state of things. I read election news and social media feeds and catch up quickly on how fucked up the world is and hope that maybe despite being so fucked up things will eventually in due time (maybe 10 days time) hit a wall and swing back the other way. Though the Supreme Court is now stuck without questionable intervention due to questionably rushing a nominee through. Yet some people really will be happy and benefit from a conservative government in power—I don’t agree with those people, I don’t think it’s fair that many must suffer to support their views, and yet some people will be happy. Those who prefer a woman to die than to abort her child. Do they not deserve happiness too? I don’t know. Who really deserves happiness? We are all pretty awful creatures and in the end to ashes we go. So, if anyone is happy at any given time even for the worst of reasons, isn’t there some sick beauty in that? I don’t know. I’m trying to see the rusted glass half full.
I hope Biden wins.
I guess we will find out soon. I am grateful my children will be too young to remember much of this presidency. I don’t want them having a picture of “Presidential” as this. My oldest will be 6 if Trump gets another 4 years, so there will be some memories — but mostly of the joy of seeing him out of office (hopefully) as he concludes his second term. Frankly I’m concerned if he doesn’t win this time he will continue campaigning for the next 4 years and run again in 2024. Everything is going to so much shit right now a part of me feels like we are best off letting him destroy us so we can properly rebuild, vs handing this mess to Biden (who he will continue to blame) to fix. Hmm.
It’s unfair of me to think these things. I can survive another 4 years of Trump, probably, but many others cannot. And his administration just announced they gave up on managing the virus. Entirely. What? Just let everyone die? I guess so. Just 1% of Americans. Sorry if you’re one of them.
The whole pandemic lifestyle is getting to me. The first few months I enjoyed—no longer having to commute to an office. Working from my bed in my pajamas. Going for long walks in the late afternoon vs sitting in 45 minutes of traffic to drive home. No having to come up with something awkwardly witty or say or ask at the water cooler. Just me, my family, my apartment, and my food delivery people who I never met other than by name in Instacart.
But now I miss people. I do. I miss being around people. Hearing them. I miss all the things I haven’t been able to do with my son like take him to dance class or little gym or the zoo or go on vacations and show him new things. I’ve invested all the extra free time in buying and now renovating a home, so at least it has been productive (I can’t imagine doing this in a normal time.) There are plenty of positives and yet—I miss my family. I miss my occasional happy hours with coworkers. I miss even more occasional massages and pedicures. I miss getting a professional haircut. It has been almost one year since I’ve had one. I cut my hair myself a month or two ago. It’s time to do that again soon.
I struggle in knowing many aren’t social distancing as much as my family is—and wondering am I giving up too much of my life to hide from something with a 99% survival rate? I mean, not that I’d be attending maskless indoor parties or anything. But what if my son went to daycare to meet other kids his age? What if I took him to the zoo or pumpkin picking? Or to ride the outdoor train that goes down to Santa Cruz that I always wanted to do once I had a child.
My son doesn’t seem to mind that he’s missing out on some aspect of his childhood. He doesn’t know what he is missing, though I suspect he has some idea when I grab him away from other children who come running up to him at the park. In the rare chance we go to the park. How will I, after a vaccine is introduced, teach him it’s ok to socially interact with other kids? Will he easily adapt? Will he shy away from socializing because that’s what he knows? I worry.
At least soon he will have a little brother or sister to play with. I mean, in a year or so when that baby is more than a blob that poops and cries. One day. You know if said blob and I survive childbirth. Which we probably will. I expect this time to be equally as scary as my last birth. Or worse. Or maybe it won’t be. I read a lot about traumatic births. So I’m scared. Women who have survived but who have hemorrhaged. Or who had an emergency c-section where the medication didn’t work. Who can blame me about worrying a bit?
In 13 weeks I’ll have another baby. That’s just three quick months. I am looking forward to it. Not the birth part. But the part after. Not being interrupted from my half sleep in the middle of the night after my child is born to be informed my father died. Not having to beg so many wonderful friends and family to help my husband survive with a newborn as I took a flight across the country, terrified of my blood pressure spiking or blood clotting, to attend my father’s funeral. Maybe some time, this time, to feel happy despite the typical positive birth exhaustion blur. I just want that. I don’t deserve it. No one deserves anything. But I hope I get that experience. A baby that comes out breathing. Who isn’t whisked away to the NICU. Maybe a “normal” birth and a breathing baby and things to go right for once.
I can’t let myself get too optimistic for anything. I thought my father was doing better and would make it three months so he could meet my son at Thanksgiving. I could see how happy he was holding my son for the first time. Laughing and joking with him. Telling stories about when I was a child. How my son reminds him of that. Singing to him and reading to him and having all those stolen moments that will never be. I don’t like to get my hopes up anymore. It doesn’t seem worth it. But it also doesn’t seem worth it to live a life always expecting the worst.
So I guess I have to figure out how to fill the glass a tiny bit more so I don’t have to make a judgement call on how to describe it’s respective volume.
Be Anyone Else But Me
When I was 21 and romanticizing overdosing on pills or jumping in front of a train, the one thing that really kept me going is thinking that at some point things must get better. At some point in life I become an “adult” and stop being a trainwreck and start functioning as a normal healthy happy human being in the world. Maybe by 25, or 30, or for sure 35 it would all be better.
Fast forward 15 years. Spoiler alert: it hasn’t gotten better. It’s just gotten more humiliating. At 21 at least there is something mildly cute about being a hot mess. At 36, it’s not cute. It’s incredibly painful. It isn’t romantic in the least bit. It’s cry-in-your-car-and-hope-you-can-hold-it-together-so-no-one-really-knows-how-much-of-a-mess-you-are. There is no reason to tell anyone else. They already know. Or they don’t care. No one should care. You are an adult now. Figure it out.
Yet every word that comes out of my mouth in the wrong one. When I’m told I botched a meeting, that I spoke too much (again), that I am given all these chances and I still manage to embarrass myself and my team, I am finally speechless—because it’s all true. I bite my tongue too late and try to come up with a list of ways I can redeem myself. I feel like it’s all futile. Not just this, but everything. I’m clearly broken. Not in a romanticized way. Not in a wanting to swallow a bunch of pills sort of way. Just in a frustrated and tired and sad way. Like — maybe I can at some point figure out a way to pretend to be someone else so people like “me” enough so I can function properly in society? God, I wonder if people actually think I hold myself in high regard, that I think I’m the greatest thing since the invention of avocado toast. No. I don’t. I am not my biggest fan, to say the least.
I’m scared. I realize I’m so fortunate for everything I have. For all the things I’ve had. But everything is so fragile. Everything can break at any second. The moment I start to feel like I’m making progress I fall so much harder. Therapy doesn’t help. My therapist probably thinks I’m a spoiled brat. I don’t have any real problems. Well, I don’t. It shouldn’t be this hard. I just don’t know how to exist. I certainly can’t model ideal behavior after my parents, two people who only listen(ed) to themselves. I’m sure I’m way more like them than I’d ever want to admit. But in a different way. My dad was a know it all. My mom, well, she just thinks the world revolves around her. What do I think? I think I have to constantly prove myself to have worth. I have to earn my space. My right to exist. Except that clearly backfires. So then why do I do this? I don’t have any idea how to be.
I look at my colleagues and admire their confidence and poise and intellect. I recall again and again how I don’t belong here, and yet I don’t belong anywhere so here is just as good as any other place if I can make it work. After all, I have to work. And I want to make it work. I want to exist in this world of rockstars—people I admire, people who are everything I want to be. I figure maybe if I spend enough time around them some of that goodness will rub off. I don’t know. It’s yet another little bit of hope I have. Thinking it’s possible to shift in that direction.
Instead, well, I’m back where I always am. Because I am not them. I don’t know who I am but I’m not this put together, smart and polished person. Maybe sometimes I can create something people appreciate on its own — if only I could disappear entirely that might solve the puzzle. Or, I don’t know. I am running on fumes here. So terrified. I’m trying. I really am and yet it seems the harder I try the worse I come off. This isn’t a post seeking self pity. No. It’s just where I am. A month out from 37. Acknowledging it really doesn’t get better. I don’t get better. I mean, I’m going to keep trying, because that’s what I do. But I’m seeing cliffs in all directions and I don’t know if I can handle falling yet again. I really don’t know how many more times I can take it. But what other choice do I have? Only the one that I don’t want to make. At least there’s that.
Pregnant in a Pandemic
I had always planned to start trying for my second child 18 months after my first was born. I figured, like my first, this whole miracle of life thing would take months and require medical support like the creation of my first child. At age 36 I didn’t want to look back and think I waited too long to try. I wanted to give my son at least one sibling, maybe two. After my father’s death two years ago, and overall being so far from any family with children my son’s age, and growing up in a large extended family, it hit me hard how important it was to make my own little big family if I could.
Then, a global pandemic happened. In case you haven’t noticed.
I wasn’t in denial of what that meant. I weighed the pros and the many cons. I didn’t mind the idea of not seeing people during my pregnancy or missing things like baby showers and such. If it had been my first pregnancy I would be missing all that but been there, done that, and ok with hibernating these nine months. But I was expecting it to take a while to get pregnant—putting me at a late spring or summer or fall due date—after the second and likely worst peak of the pandemic had past. But the pandemic and my body had other ideas.
In March, I either had COVID or some form of debilitating anxiety where I couldn’t eat. The reason I think it was COVID is that my go-to when I am anxious is eating. But in a month, I lost 8lbs. I also had a lot of lung issues and ended up getting an inhaler and feeling liquid in my lungs for a while. It could have been bad allergies (I don’t have allergies typically) or maybe I was just losing it—but nonetheless I ended up eating healthy/less and with the massive reduction in social anxiety (not having to interact with other humans was just a huge relief, esp coming off what might have been an actual manic episode the prior fall and early winter) my body apparently said “ok, you are ready to be a mom again.”
With my first son, I took my pregnancy test on my 34th birthday. With this one, it was Mother’s Day. I figured my life is secretly scripted so of course I’d find out on mom’s day that I had rapidly reproduced this time around. I used a cheap-o test at first and there was a very very faint line. My text to a friend confirmed it was there. The more expensive test I took a few minutes later said it definitely was there. Pregnant. In a pandemic.
It was no longer a — well maybe I’ll get pregnant and maybe I’ll have to deal with the tail end of the pandemic in a while and maybe that will be difficult. It was—you are delivering in January. The exact month the pandemic will probably be at its actual worst, after a summer of people flouting the rules, after nearly a year of people saying they just want to get back to normal life. Oh, and for fun let’s make your due date two days after the inauguration what will likely be the most contested election in American history, when our prior president may refuse to leave office should be not get re-elected. Why not?
There are definitely pros to being pregnant during a pandemic. For starters, being able to work from home my entire pregnancy is a blessing. As I’m older now, this pregnancy has been a bit harder on me. I think part of that is because I’m not moving enough (which means I would be better off going to an office dusky) but being able to lie down and work, or sit down and wait for a wave of nausea to pass without getting any weird looks at the office is one of the best things about this specific situation. While last time I felt I had to push myself to not be disabled by pregnancy (working up until my due date with horrible carpal tunnel at the end and eventually being diagnosed with gestational hypertension and needing to be induced) I can take this pregnancy easy. Ish. I mean as easy as one can take a pregnancy with no childcare and a two year old wanting attention all day.
Yes, a negative of the pandemic has definitely been the loss of childcare. Prior to the pandemic my FIL came to watch our son four days a week. He enjoyed it and it worked out well for us. But then with COVID we couldn’t risk getting him sick—even though we immediately went into isolation and were being as careful as possible, I had to go to a few doctors appointments so we had to stop seeing my in laws for a while. My husband, who works flexible hours, stepped up to take on the bulk of the childcare. At first, that seemed to work well. I was thriving at work, sleeping well, able to focus without the commute and anxiety of judging myself so harshly for every movement around others. For a few months, I felt, hey, I can get the hang of this pandemic life.
My husband was definitely struggling, though, and as my pregnancy progressed the sleep I was getting turned into random wakings in the middle of the night. I began to be sad overall about the pandemic—about how my son cannot play with other kids, about how my mom can’t see her grandchild until who knows when, about how my sister and my son’s only aunt may not see him for years. We eventually made the choice to see our in laws again, but only 2 weeks after any in person doctor’s appointment. We have completely isolated otherwise, except for going around with our realtor looking at empty houses as we wanted to buy and move before baby number two. I think that little socialization and activity kept me sane these past few months. Oh, and we bought a house (also known as baby #3.) So we have been keeping busy. My son seems ok as he doesn’t know what he is missing. He is now used to mommy grabbing him when we are out and an older kid comes too close, like at the empty park the other night when an unmasked pre-teen came storming out of nowhere and sat right behind my unsuspecting son. Now that some parks are open we will go only when they are empty, and we wash hands after. It seems low risk. But who knows. We do our best. But like everyone else we can still get sick.
Pregnant women are much more likely to end up on a ventilator if we get COVID-19. I would very much prefer to not end up on a vent in my third trimester or ever. I’m scared now, a bit, but being as careful as I can be. I have only a handful of in-person doctor’s appointments left. I’ll go and wear my mask and try to stay far away from other humans and hope I can stay healthy. I worry about what happens when I go to the hospital to give birth. I worry about wearing a mask while in labor when I am already panicked and finding it hard to breathe. I worry about looking at every nurse and doctor who helps me while in the hospital and wondering — do they have COVID? What if I get COVID while in the hospital? Should I have a home birth? Should I get to the hospital so late I give birth in the parking lot and am close enough if anything goes wrong they can whisk me or baby inside and save our lives? What if I get sick at the hospital and die a few weeks later, leaving my kids with no mom? What if I get my husband, who has some high risk medical conditions, sick and leave my kids without a dad—and me without a husband?
But I keep reminding myself pregnancy is a risk in and of itself. Everything in life is risk. So I just need to be as careful as possible, keep calm, and carry on.
I mourn all the things I am missing out on this pregnancy. There has been little time to celebrate my growing bump. I am sad for the weeks ahead, after birth, when I can’t connect with other new mothers as I did last time. I worry for all the pregnant woman and new moms who are essential workers—or married to one—who aren’t able to lock themselves away from the virus.
Overall I, personally, am doing well. My concentration has gone to shit these past few months, but I’m surviving. After a few solid months at work when I was doing well, I came crashing down with the exhaustion and anxiety that is life these days. I keep reminding myself that just surviving—and doing the best I can (as long as I can keep my job, hopefully)—is enough right now. Gone are my fantasizes of thriving in my career, moving up the ladder, what have you. I can be a good employee and a mom and I don’t have to be a leader or brilliant or whatever it is that is worker bees think equals success. I am in a very good place if I can just hold it together mentally, and physically. I can have this baby and experience all of that and see what life looks like on the other side of it.
For now, I’m so grateful for the last months, for working from home and being able to see my son grow up. I didn’t see him much in his first year. I don’t have time or energy now to see him as much as I would like in a more present way, but I’m here nonetheless. I’m here to see him wake up and for a quick lunchtime cuddle and afternoon laugh. This has reminded me of how much I was missing. It really had made me realize what matters in life. In a sense, I think there is something to be said about being forced to hole up and slow down. And, assuming WFH will stick for a while, I look forward to being able to breastfeed longer versus having to sneak away to the mom’s room to pump every few hours. To not have to drive to the office in those first months after maternity leave when I almost got into an accident too many times to count because who sleeps with a <6 month old?
So I’m focused on the positives. And survival. And trying to move on to this next home-owning, mom-to-two, mentally stable (hopefully) phase of my life. I’ll do my best, but for the first time in my life, maybe I won’t give it my all. And I’m ok with that.
Let’s Write a Happy Post
It has been a rough… I don’t know… nearly 37 years. But compared to most 37 year stretches of human life it’s been good. Solid. Not so bad.
The challenge is slowing down and not feeling like I have to prove something. I don’t even know what I want to prove (other than, at this point, that I can consistently pay my mortgage for the next 30 years), but I think I’m finally letting go of this innate drive to be somehow special. Even over the desire to be recognized for being a proper cog. And a good mother. Not an amazing one or anything. Just a standard, run-of-the-mill, cares about her kids mom who occasionally treats herself to a (post covid) mom’s night out.
Aging is tough. Not just my own aging but experiencing everyone else go through it. Knowing 40 is just around the corner. Watching my mother having 70 around the corner. Still feeling sore from the midnight call two years ago, a week after giving birth, and in a bit of a delusional state to begin with, when I was informed my father passed away. Being concerned about other family members every time they feel ill as youth no longer is on their side and statistics suddenly look less promising.
Oh, but I promised to write a happy post, didn’t I? Well. I don’t know if happy is the right term but I feel rather satisfied that I managed to make it possible to purchase a home. Yes, there was some luck involved, but even more so tenacity and semi frugality and years of saving and investing and wondering if I might possibly ever have enough to buy something remotely worth buying. And despite my mental health challenges, my ups and many downs, I’ve done it. I am a home owner.
In home ownership, I also feel like I made and continue to make a lot of good decisions. In a high cost of living area the price tags on houses are insane, as are the monthly mortgage payments. But I’m happily welcoming my in law to share our new home, and with his contributions can also keep the monthly payment down enough to make me a tad bit less worried about losing the house if SHTF. We didn’t buy the cheapest house, but we definitely didn’t extend ourselves anywhere near what the bank was offering. The home, while not the cheapest house on the street, still seems to have potential for value growth. I feel like after 2+ years of looking, and finally compromising on the location quite a bit, we made the right choice. I made the right choice. A smart choice. A grown up one. And one that is going to be good for my family.
And while I’ve been pushed out of a role I aspired to be suited for at work, it is for good reason. It’s not a good fit. And what’s amazing is that I’ve been able to prove myself in another, tangential role, where I probably fit a lot better. And I’m being given a chance to really thrive in that position. Despite being sad my ADHD self couldn’t manage a seriously complex and collaborative role requiring equal parts project management excellence, influence building, and broad expertise, I am grateful and relieved to be off that boat, for the time being, and put on one where perhaps I’m not clogging leaks left and right all while trying to steer the ship safely to shore. I miss all the icebergs.
On paper, I’m incredibly lucky on so many levels. In real life, I am too. I’ve acquired some likely lifelong friends this year, successfully connected two good friends with each other across the county and now they’re in the middle of a fledgling romance that seems like it actually may stick. And for the most part I’ve turned the incoherent and at times terrifying energy of last year into something(s) productive and good this year.
I wish I could say I feel stable and life is just swimming along smoothly. It’s anything but. But. I’m starting to get into the grove of things, I guess. Of being a mom. An employee. A creative/ish. A near-40 nobody who can still be everything to my family. As my aspirations shift from stardom to all my loved ones surviving the next 5 years (and our country not falling into a devastating civil war), I find new stressors that are perhaps more real (and stressful) but at least make me feel somewhat sane to stress about. I’d take a do over of the last 12 months if I could have one—but since I can’t, I have to applaud myself for getting through whatever that was and for being able to be on the other side of it. I wouldn’t say I’m stable but I’m at least not presently captain and crew on a sinking ship.
The Inevitable When You Aren’t Smart Enough, Fast Enough, Liked Enough, Enough Enough.
Everyone has at least one weakness. Those who are “successful” have figured out how to milk their strengths and hide their shortcomings. Boy, do I wish I could do that.
With all the analysis of my failures—picking apart where things go wrong along to way—I see no clear path to resolution. This is concerning. I’d like to say I can fix where I’ve failed but I just don’t know anymore. My reputation is tarnished and my confidence shot. But it’s not that. It’s a mediocre IQ in a sea of at least above average. It’s not knowing how to interact with people in a normal way—every interaction that seems even remotely close to “normal” is one that has drained my energy for hours. And I still second guess every little thing I said. I don’t know what to say, or slack for that matter.
I’m sad. Sad because I got my hopes up—sad because I thought maybe this time the outcome would be different. I take full responsibility for my actions and inaction. At the end of the day, it was and always will be my personality that drags me down.
If only I could be liked—then maybe all the rest would fall into place. If only the words that come out of my mouth would seem authentic, if only I could confidently make eye contact and inspire others to action. If only. If I were excellent at anything perhaps that would be enough. But I’m mediocre across the board. I don’t belong here. Yet here I am. And I fight for it. I fight for it because I can’t accept that I’m not meant for this league. This group of exceptionals who masterfully check off their to-dos of the day, one by one, in mad sprints between back-to-back meetings and Peloton rides and effortless colleague banter. This collection of Type As who I always admired but could never emulate. Who always glance at my tangled everything with a bit of intrigue and, for those capable of it, a momentary tinge of empathy—how sad it is to examine what could be a quite useful contributor and instead waste the space my flesh takes up with a human error. A person clearly incapable of follow through, despite best intention. A woman who, only after scolding so harsh she cries for hours, can put out her best work, when her demons are temporarily drowned in a sea of self flagellation. To feel safe to push ahead only when others see her as a lost cause—pathetic. Hopeless. An utter failure.
I appreciate the silence after that storm. Sure, it fills me with the same recycled tears I’ve spilled since I was aware of being me. But there is a freedom there. No where to sink to. Rock bottom is, clearly, where I find strength. How depressing. What a waste.
I’m ashamed and embarrassed all over again. Grateful, and in many ways lucky, for the second and third chances. But still knowing the direction I’m headed. Not confused or shocked or any of that. Just frustrated, exhausted, and sad. Scared. No, terrified. Trying to swim upstream hovering inches away from a waterfall. How long can I fight the current?
There must be a way to stabilize. I don’t know if that’s pills or yoga or a lobotomy or what. It’s a year since my self-diagnosed manic episode and at least this time around the sun I’m just sad. I think the sadness eventually trips over to mania because all my systems break and go into full self destruct mode. It’s the end of the line. Seeking punishment for the sin of merely existing as I do. Seeking something to take control of everything that is so very unbound and unwound. Not to make me feel better about any of it. Just to bring quiet. To stop trying to be something I’m not but instead to be rightfully punished for who I am. Whoever that is. Clearly someone broken. Who can’t play the game or even fake it. I guess depression and mania aren’t so far separated in that way. That world is round. I won’t fall too far in either direction again. I won’t let myself. But every inch of me hurts. Every inch of me is torn apart in simply trying to function as an acceptable anything.
In that sense, I guess I’m doing incredibly well. Hiding who I am. Maybe not succeeding at making up for all the gaps in my abilities, but in the least, surviving. And I ought to be grateful for that. Quietly grateful as I hold my breath and continue to swim furiously upstream, letting my ego crumble, doing whatever it takes to never go over.
Protected: The Sky is Red as is my Mood.
Life is Trauma
Many mental health disorders are fueled by a general mindset that in the absence of particular textbook traumas in our lives, we ought to be happy. No bashing on happiness here, but I find it disconcerting that we hold ourselves to being happy for the privilege of being, as if that makes sense at all.
Birth itself is a traumatic experience. Luckily we forget it, but we all go through that trauma to start. Can you imagine what kind of PTSD we would have if we were able to remember the day we were born? Evicted from the comfort of darkness and the only home we’ve ever known, squeezing through a tight space and being forced out into the light, our shoulders nearly dislocating. We enter a world that is filled with wonder and a million opportunities to break our hearts.
In the best case, we grow attached to those who love us and we love them back, and one day their heart stops beating and they are gone. We create stories about heaven and god to try to provide comfort, but even believers face the trauma of mortality.
Besides death, though, life is a story of loss. Time plays tricks on the mind, but overall life isn’t that long. And as we grow we must mourn the loss of ourselves over and over. Once 30 we are set in our ways, generally responsible for consistency and not looked to as creators. By 30, our lives, at least the part of our lives where the world was ahead of us, is largely behind us. Our bodies start to remind us that despite telling ourselves we will live well beyond 100 we are fast approaching the middle of the part of our life where we still have mobility and our minds. As our grandparents and parents age and pass, we see those we remember as youthful or at least middle aged now hidden behind wrinkles and grey hair and walking with support of various devices. Aging is no longer the story of our elders. It is the story of us. When did this happen?
Ones 30s are an odd time where we either ignore our mortality until suddenly we are 40, or we fixate on it and try desperately to close all loose ends of building the adult life we thought we wanted as doors start to close. As a woman, at 36, I feel this biologically. The need to procreate is fueled both by the strange desire to have kids and knowing my time to build a family, as least one of my own DNA, is almost up. I have a strange impulse to have 3 children, although it is unlikely at my age with one, but hopefully possible. My husband is happy with one and thinks I’m mad to consider more than two. I have a plan playing in my mind — if I have one more at 37 and still feel strongly about 3, I can have my last at 39 or 40.
10 years ago I would have said I would never have a child at 39 or 40 but I failed to do the math of waiting to have my first child until 34. And with infertility challenges I wasn’t sure I could have a baby, so I tried not to fixate on it too much. And then, with some medication and luck, I had my first. A rather traumatic 74 hour induction (really the last 24 hours was the worst of it), my son was immediately taken from me after birth because he wasn’t breathing. Thirty six hours later he figured it out and we got him back. He lived.
And now he’s growing fast and has somehow gone from a blob to a real human being with thoughts and feelings in two years. I see him, and despite all the trauma of life, despite my general melancholy, despite moments where I look at him and think how fragile he is, how I have brought him into a world where only death is certain and where viruses and climate change and race and wealth inequality make for a world that is uglier than a two year old can grasp, I find these tiny little moments of happiness in my heart. Zaps of light in a world clouded with darkness. I am reminded of my purpose—not a purpose of myself but of building a family. For my child and future children. To try to make their life better than mind, within the little control I have.
Still, the weight of past trauma and future trauma weighs on me. The ideal outcome is that my children outlive me and remain healthy for their lives. I can’t control this, though I can try to protect them, support their mental health, teach them to be wisely cautious while not limiting their opportunities. Giving them room to chase their dreams when dreaming is still on the roadmap. And, I don’t know, the potential trauma weighs on me. Especially in these times. Where every decision is a calculated risk, or at least there is a heightened awareness of this. My son lives in a bubble. He has no friends, or at least none he can play with in person. His mom now works from home so mom and dad are always there to soothe him when he is scared or bored or lonely. It is a nice little bubble, but a deceiving one. I like it because we dangerous as the world is, it feels safe. Small. Controlled.
In my small apartment there is not a home but there are walls and a roof and a front door and that’s our world. We go out for walks on a few familiar routes. We drive to grandma’s house. It’s as if we live in an old tv show with limited settings where all the action happens. I still remember the rest of the heart big world. How less then a year ago I was experiencing a wild manic episode while in London for work, and spent a day after our conference ended wandering the cobblestone streets of the city at night, singing to myself under my breath. I wasn’t in a good place then, mentally. I felt completely out of control and afraid of myself. My mind was in full-on self destructive mode. It was as if with the world so big and life moving so fast, without control of it, I needed to crumble. I’m ashamed by things I thought and occasionally said. I am not that person now. And partially this lockdown has helped me continue drifting back to earth. The shrinking of my world. Focusing on what matters. Giving up on making things constantly different and dramatic and intense to combat the reality of walls closing in. Breathing too deeply in a room slowly losing all of its oxygen. FOMO.
And then there is the quiet. The days which are known in their repetition. No longer even getting out of bed. Just hours of working until the day is through and trying to have energy to play with my son after that and the sleep. These days they slip away. But here they are. The trauma floats outside my door. Potential traumas of all the many things that can go wrong at any moment dance in my view — earthquakes, fires, illnesses, accidents, choking, gun violence, and all that. Immediate threats and future ones. The fall of democracy. The overheating of our planet. All the many things that can and likely will go wrong in my lifetime and my children’s lifetimes. Coronavirus. ACM. The diseases here that are real now. The news stories that make me glad to be able to close our door and lock ourselves inside our humble abode and shelter in place instead of facing the reality of a great big world with so many unknowns.
I know this won’t last forever. In this time I aim to build this family that my body tells me I want. I hope to convince my husband of it too. And to raise children who hopefully aren’t as anxious as I am with even more kindness in their hearts. And I’ll try my best to ignore the trauma of the world, the passing of time. For all of the things out of my control, the many, many things, I must focus on what I can control, and let the rest go in acceptance that there will be horror and there will be tragedy. But I ought not to waste the moments in between failing to live in a comedy with joy, somehow. Simple joys. I hope to find that. To stop living for the passing of time. And to start living within the little time there is left, however long that may be.
When Was The Moment You Became What You Thought You Never Would Be?
My hands and wrists and arms looked more like an art store after some great explosion than the limbs of a high schooler. It was some time o’clock in the day and I was once again somewhere in the hallway taking whatever scene in front of me and attempting to capture it on paper or canvas. I didn’t have the attention span to capture all the details, but in lieu of that I found I had a knack for capturing the emotion of whatever stillness it was I was drawing or painting with each rushed stroke.
I never saw myself as an artist, just someone who made art that occasionally was considered good by those who didn’t know any better. I knew GOOD artists—many my age who participated in a once a week arts high school program that I somehow was accepted into. My “art” was not like their art. I don’t know how many of them went on to be great artists but I assume none because statistically it’s still likely they all decided a life as a starving artist is far less desirable than one in law or medicine or even after years of art school settling for teaching art to the students we once were who would repeat the same pattern.
Or maybe some of them went to art school and lived that dream, perhaps showing in galleries in Chelsea and hob knobbing with the who’s who of I don’t know who is who because I’m not a who at all. That world is so foreign to me, as are so many worlds. I don’t fit in any world which might be part of the problem. But the art world was never a fit. I had the luxury of attending summer courses at the great art and fashion schools in NY in my high school summers, and there I spent time with kids far wealthier than myself with far more talent and far more confidence. They would speak names of designers and artists and walk in a way I never could. I couldn’t imagine myself to be someone who found art the most important when the world had so many other issues to solve. Not that I was doing anything about those either. I was a depressed loner who didn’t fit in there, and I didn’t know where I’d fit in, though a little bird in my head reminded me artists often are depressed loners so maybe this is where I belong after all.
I participated in choir and the school play and attempted to find myself on stage making others laugh. In college I had a massive auditorium cracking up to my rendition of the dominatrix monologue from The Vagina Monologues which required me to go through a series of orgasms to show the variety I encountered in my profession. It was in those moments—far and few between—in making people laugh when I felt most alive and at peace. A stint as Jeanie in HAiR post college similarly gave me a day when something came over me and my monologue was particularly hilarious, as my fellow actors noted. Most days I felt disconnected from it, but on that day something clicked. Even one of the original Broadway cast members who our director had conned into coming to our show asked me what I was on that day because it was so good. Probably not like the performance a few days before where I forgot half of the lines to my song and half played it off as my character is always high therefore how would I ever know what I’m saying or when a song should end?
But theatre also never felt entirely right. For starters, I never had talent for it, from my inability to mimic accents to finding it impossible to be in the moment and get out of my head, all while remembering my lines. It became something I did for fun—because it gave me something to do with something to look forward to that was meaningful enough to distract me from my depression and meaningless enough to generally offer a heaping dose of drama outside of my personal life that checked the box for my unfortunate need for crazy or at least a heightened state of being where things seem more important than they really are so I feel energized in the mornings to experience whatever is to come vs being swallowed by the monotony of most any life.
There were years I dreamed of making a career for myself in Hollywood—perhaps not as an actress—but a director, cinematographer, something. Screenwriter. Designer. Producer. Something. But this requires fitting in there with people who generally view themselves as highly as the moon and spend more on Botox than I do on my rent. I briefly had the opportunity to interact with some Hollywood folks in my 20s in a tech job that collaborated with A list creatives and I was both star struck and envious and at the same time wondering what makes ME different from THEM outside of they clearly believe wholeheartedly in their ideas and themselves and I have not one ounce of confidence. I got to participate in some of the creative brainstorming (honestly I’m not sure what my job was at the time outside of social media promotion of the project so I tried to make myself useful.) I thought what fun — this is the world these people live in. One where budget and reality doesn’t get in the way of bringing ideas to life. Where you can take over the River Thames for a live action boat chase that fits your storyline. Where people say yes to you because they believe whole heartedly in you and your vision. Wouldn’t that be nice.
The years have gone by quickly and despite making a life for myself in California I managed to make that live on the other side of the state. And like most here I have been swallowed by the tech industry. I work in tech. For many years I had trouble saying this because I’m not an engineer or support lead or anything like that. I’m a marketer of tech products. Software, to be specific. Software in the cloud which now is somewhat the norm but I witnessed coming to be in my now long 15 year career, from the early days of my peers reporting on SaaS in 2006, back when I too for a blip of time was a reporter. I didn’t realize how revolutionary the cloud was, and thus when it came time for story assignments I requested a thing but SaaS. I preferred to write about hardware innovation and green technology and new social sites and mobile. Nothing seemed quite as boring and uninspiring as business software.
The tech world never felt home either and it still doesn’t. I am grateful it has welcomed me with half opened arms. As a reporter at 22 I failed miserably—unable to go up to those who matter at conferences and mingle and get scoops. I felt maybe there was a place for me in tech in creating products. I liked giving feedback on UI and features. I wanted to work with CEOs and help them make their products better.
But no one was interested in a writer’s ideas on product. So as I needed a job and I was at least on paper a writer I continued on that path and found a job writing copy for a startup. I thought maybe it would be a stepping stone to product. Maybe someone would give me a chance.
Instead, 14 years or so later, I’m still writing. Marketing, to be exact. About software, no less. I find it much more interesting than I did at 22 and I’m grateful for my job and feel like my weird background actually allows me to think about how to solve problems differently which sometimes is appreciated. But long term I wonder — is this it? In our society we are defined so much by what we do and it seems like just yesterday I had so many dreams of being an artist or some creative person that makes something meaningful and that petals culturally can outlive me. Little me with my little time left as life goes ridiculously fast once you pass 25 and I hear it gets even faster as time goes on. To think I’m almost 40 is like a jackhammer dancing on my brain. 30 I could handle—it was a sign of making it through my youth and extended youth. But 40–isn’t that when all dreams of the past are laughed at as memories that will never become reality (with the exception of the few who we invest themselves in mid life or old age.) When you have a family and need to pay the mortgage your dreams must be laughable, you are now an indentured servant to the life you created for yourself. Dreams are for your children, not for you. Your dreams are reserved for paying off the mortgage early or affording a nice hotel at Disneyland or a trip to Hawaii to distract yourself from reality for a week or so before being flung back into it – until you retire, if you are lucky enough to do so, and then you leap at those dreams and realize there is far too little time or health left to make any of them a reality.
But we all know the grass is always greener. And I admit I never felt like I fit in anywhere, especially in those ridiculous dreams. All which made me more important than I am or ever will be. With our current morbid existence in a pandemic that kills the unhealthy but can also take the healthy without warning, the amount of time left to dream feels all the more truncated. And yet, on the other hand, this upside down world makes everything practical seem appealing, anything that enables one to survive each day. If you have a job, you are lucky. Those artists you longed to be are now possibly actually starving. People are unable to go out and pay to experience art or theater. The same artists who seemed immortal are no more safe from this virus as any mere mortal like myself. And even unrelatedly many celebrities have lost their lives recently—some of old age, some of drowning, etc. In a godless society our celebrities are our gods that make everything somehow seem ok. Yet they are just as vulnerable to all the things that make all of us human. And perhaps the desire to be an artist or creator of some sort is to find a false sense of immortality. Of some transcendence beyond being an ant like everyone else who may get squashed now or in 100 years, but eventually.
And I wonder if it is healthy to still dream, or if the greatest plague of all is desiring something that isn’t real, or that doesn’t make sense anymore, and that perhaps never did. If anything has changed in terms of my sentiment I used to want to be known as I felt even as a loner and outsider if people knew me and respected me for what I did/created, I’d finally feel like part of the world. Now, that all seems far too exhausting. I embrace my anonymity. And so maybe being a nobody is where I belong, in a sea of everybody else. Maybe they fit in somewhere, or maybe they are faking it better than I ever could.
In Trying to Stay Above the Surface
Option 1: ignore the time and space continuum and try to let it all blur into ad nauseum and add nausea and try to be a mom wife employee best of all worlds and keep it all spinning so fast you get lost in it until it never was and you’re slid 6 feet under because that’s how fast it goes and in those last moments you realize regret and wonder could there have been another way or are you always you and any way would have been no better and so you take your last breath and again let your life pass before your eyes just as it always has.
Option 2: Stop and feel everything, the good, the bad, all of it. Try to embrace each moment of these fast fleeting days. Each discovery your son makes. The excitement in his eyes conquering a new skill. Remember the good more then the bad. There was good, wasn’t there? You’re so negative. Surely there was good. Long days and nights of a youth that went on and on. Looking forward to things—there was a time when you did that also. You can do it again, perhaps. If only you stop expecting the moon and start embracing the flickering overhead lights that life offers. They’re still light and if you squint enough and/or drink enough maybe they too will look lunarly lovely. Won’t they? If only you could see the glass not only half full but imagine a few more inches of liquid there. Why waste all the little time there is lost in the time that was?
It is almost July. Time is no longer relevant. Moments are everything. Days and weeks and months and years and decades are, well, they bookend the moments many or few, they remind us of the lack of forever in forever as does the skin that crepes slowly on our hands and crows that line around our eyes and pigment that escapes our worn and weary hair leaving nothing but silver white. And so I ponder the options and question my free will and in all that thought another year goes by and I wish I made faster choices or something but I’m just here trying my best to stay above water and I guess that’s worth something I mean I guess that’s worth everything even if it doesn’t mean I am satisfied or content or happy or in some state of acceptance or anything. It is just is, as it is, as it always was.
life with interest 