Debby Does…

I have always prided myself on being transparent, honest, and frank in my writing. I might not always achieve those three qualities in person, but that has far more to do with hating conflict than embracing dishonesty. In the past couple of days, I have had to sit down with myself for some firm conversations. And, while I could say all of this to my therapist and work through it alone, I thought I might let you in and see if any of it resonates.

I’m not doing all that well.

I think there are people who probably just want me to get over shit, but I don’t know if they truly understand how high that pile is and, quite frankly, until it’s your shit to get over, you don’t know how hard it is.

From Christmas of 2019 until this very second, I (and please understand this is really about we, but Jim likes to repress his feelings) have been bombarded with loss, grief, change, and struggle. That’s not to say that there haven’t been sunny days, but the list is quite long on the cloudy side. I don’t need to list it here, because most of you reading already know that fire, dementia, cancer, change and so much more have fed most of my feelings over these past 4 years.

In response to these incredible challenges I have done my indomitable best. I have made the proverbial lemonade. I have been #fuckingblessed. I have smiled through much of it, trusted the universe, and found meaning in anything I could.

Yesterday, I realized that I was tired of that or tired from that. For the past few weeks, I have thought I was sick, and maybe I am fighting some pesky virus, but I think I might just be exhausted from being in the mode of accepting change and driving change in my life; done in by pushing myself ahead; spent from four years of looking for the light, when it’s okay to be in the dark.

I realized that it doesn’t matter how much I want to move forward, start fresh, and reinvent myself, the past has scarred me and it’s weighing me down.

I’m sad. I’m tired. My body aches, my breath feels exhausting, and my energy is sapped. By what? By life. By loss. By change.

We are deep into life’s challenges over here, after devastating change and loss when my mom left us. We are dealing with an aggressive cancer in our sweet Tilly dog. We are sitting in real estate limbo between selling our house in Florida and buying a house in Indiana. We are trying to finish the projects on the house in New Jersey to sell it and wandering around trying to decide if we can pack stuff to move. My estranged father died recently, which is a whole other can of worms. I’m also adjusting to being retired and looking for a sense of purpose. I cannot wait to find meaningful work, but I know that needs to wait for a few months. I keep trying think in a forward moving way, but, as I said the other day, the past is tugging at me.

I realize that for some people these sound like the problems of a brat. I assure you. I am not a brat. I am not a whiner. I’m a person, with a life, just like any person. Sometimes, that life is hard and sometimes a person finds themself at a loss. I am that person.

I’m struggling with simple pleasures and basic productivity. I have an eye doctor appointment today and, as I type, I am trying to figure out how to cancel it. I won’t, but I want to. I mean, I have to shower and blow dry my hair for this. That feels like a mountain to climb.

I think it’s safe to say that I’m depressed. I’m overwhelmed. I am lonely. I miss my mom. I am impatient. I am fat, out of shape, and lost when it comes to my own health. I know what I need to do, but inertia is holding me hostage.

Do I have plans to right my ship? I do. I just cannot seem to put them in motion. Do I need advice? Probably not. Should I go see Donna, my therapist? Definitely. Is someone going to say, “you got this” and make me homicidal? Most likely.

In a dream world, what would happen? I’d have a big fucking eraser. I’d be sitting in the upstairs sitting room with my mom watching March Madness and checking to see what weekend Voltaco’s opens. I’d have far fewer scars, lines, and wrinkles. I’d have the healthiest dogs on earth. Jim would be coming in the front door from work. I’d know a lot less about sorrow.

Well, Debby, that’s not happening.

This is the moment I should probably make a list of bullet items that will whip my sorry ass into shape and redefine my life’s motivation.

I am not going to do that.

For once, I am going to sit with my feelings, my exhaustion, and my grief. I am going to sit with it until it tells me that it has run its course, and I can start taking baby steps forward. I’m going to let myself be tired. I’m going to be unapologetic of my tears. I’m going to be unashamed of the nearly 20 pounds that tamoxifen, menopause, and cheese fries have shared with me. I’m going to lean on my partner of more than 30 years and let him lean on me. I will love on these puppy dogs for as long as they’ll humor me; I mean, the Amazon truck could go by any minute and barking will commence. And, I’m going to gift myself the grace I’m always giving to everyone else. I know it’s easier said than done, so I’m going to ask you to hold me to it.

In the coming days, I’ll have a timeline. I’ll know where I’m going to land. I’ll be able to see through the misty clouds to some sunny clarity and progress. But, until then, I’m going to sit here in my figurative tub of hot water and epsom salts, letting my fingers and toes get all wrinkly, as I grant my body and mind the chance to heal and find new growth in the spring of my life.