Reality Bites Sometimes

I keep starting posts- and then stopping. Getting stuck in the chaos of my brain. The pressure to have some concise point. To be uplifting or introspective. When really, all I am is tired. And honestly, I think a little afraid of my own feelings.

I began seeing my therapist about 16 months ago. And within my first few sessions with her, she told me that the process of a divorce is like surgery. You are cut open, exposed, and lying on the table. Everything hurts -it’s all raw. But once the divorce is final, you can begin sewing yourself up. You can begin healing. I mostly think that she was right. But I think self discovery post divorce is more tender. And oftentimes, more self destructive.

I can’t speak for other people’s experience. But for me, I had the chariot of anger to carry me through the navigation of dismantling my entire adult life. Because for me- and I imagine for most- that was what my divorce was. I had built myself around a man for over 12 years. I had built a belief system around vows that I uttered in pure honesty. My divorce was more than determining the best courses of action to take for my son. Ensuring that I was doing everything in my power to create an environment that he could thrive in. The ten months that passed between the time my marriage ended and the paperwork was signed- I had to disassemble the shelter of my beliefs brick by brick. Anger made the manual labor a little easier. Less daunting.

Anger kept me focused.

Once the divorce is complete- the agreements made- you pick up the needle and thread to sew yourself up. Stitch by stitch. At least, that’s what I thought would be the process. It’s what I desperately wanted the process to be. Because it meant I would feel better. I would walk on euphoria, instead of navigating fear, uncertainty, and resentment. I wanted to stitch myself back up and pretend that I had become enlightened. Able to love and embrace myself. I was wrong.

The process is more of a labyrinth than a straightforward path.

Once I began sewing my open wound- gleefully protecting it from the elements- it became clear that the work had only begun. I had survived the disillusion of my life as I knew it. I had even placed a few new bricks into the sand. But I hadn’t looked within yet. Not with the clarity and scrutiny that growth really requires.  So, as I stitched up one wound, I inflicted another upon myself.

I flayed myself on a new table- slowly pulling out my broken pieces. My shadows.

The only way to eradicate them- to flood them with light.

I think it’s safe to say that I have been a functioning lesion for several months. Hence why additional introspection- or maybe just the documentation of such- is an intimidating task. Writing things down- forcing my thoughts to coalesce into these hieroglyphics- can feel like nailing jello to a tree. It seems like an impossible task. One that will just leave me feeling more confused- and more like a failure- than when I started.

So I stop when it gets hard. When I get stuck.

Hence why there hasn’t been anything but unfinished drafts housed in the corners of my mind for the past two months. Or the storage of this blog. Even as I pen this, I am over 600 words in, and I am afraid of where to go next. In life. In this post. I am lost. I am heartbroken.

Unfair. It’s a word I keep uttering. It gets spoken in anger. Frequently in sadness. But more often than not, just a complete sense of overwhelm. I am trying to meet all of the needs. Be everything I want to be to everyone I love. And I feel like I keep falling short. Most days, I just feel like I am treading water. I am struggling to keep my head above water- to not let anyone down more than necessary. Not let myself down.

The holidays, this time of year, makes the feeling bubble up more than I would like to admit. Because unfair hurts. It feels like failure. Or punishment. Why do others have what I want? Why am I incapable of having the type of relationship I crave? The family I so dreamed of when Moose was developing in my womb. Hell, the relationship I have been too scared to admit I have wanted since I was a teenager. Mostly, because I am still learning how to construct it. How the scaffolding pieces together.  I’m still not convinced I am worth it.

I think that’s the danger in self reflection. Actually, I should be more specific. That in the delicate place of inner observation, I struggle to balance examining my shadows and maintaining a tender heart toward myself. I don’t allow myself to view mistakes as an experience to learn from. Instead, they are a gauntlet I thrown upon myself. Reasons to break my own spirit and deem myself irrevocably damaged. Incapable of achieving what I want. I forget to remember that I made the best decisions I could with the information I had at the time. That my heart was always in the right place.

I am growing. I am learning my shadows. I haven’t made friends with them. But we are shaking hands. This isn’t easy. This isn’t comfortable by any means. And some days- the super hard days that I have to make choices that I hate- I want to give up. I want to stop reflecting. I want to stop pushing myself to be someone I love. Someone I respect. Give in to the tears and pain-hate myself for the course my life has taken instead of continuing to battle my mind to accept that my path is my own and there isn’t anything wrong with that.

So I guess, here’s my current reality. I hate where I am at.  I hate growth. I hate the pain. I hate the tears. I hate the difficult decisions. I abhor the introspection. But as much as it sucks- as much difficulty as I am imposing on myself- I have to settle in here for a little while longer. It’s too important to give up now.

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