A few weeks ago, a friend asked me if I was tired. I laughed and asked her if sleepwalking was a
symptom of being tired. I wasn't tired at
that moment, but it occurred to me that I seem to be tired so much of the time
– just not physically tired. My fatigue is more emotional than
physical. I've spent these few weeks
pondering this state of mind, and realize that I am tired of
caring what others
think of me. I’m 53 years old, and
it’s time to Be Carolyn, no matter the opinions of anyone else. I've got this one life and I’m scared of
getting to the end of it wondering who I am.
I want to pirouette in the halls of my school – and not just when I’m
alone there – and I want to order what I want in a restaurant. I want to wear clothes that don’t match but
are comfortable. I want to listen to my
favorite music without apology.
feeling negatively
towards my body. Once upon a time, I
must have been happy with my then young, lithe, strong, working body, but I
don’t remember it. For as long as I can remember, I've felt too big, too
tall, too fat, my hair too stringy or frizzy or straight or wavy or long or
short. I was told to lose weight from
such an early age I don’t remember a time my weight wasn't a crushing
concern. But here I am, 53 (still), and
I have a body that carries me through the day.
It shoveled my car out of the snow yesterday. It carried and fed three children. My heart keeps beating. While I can feel it aging, I tend not to
recognize any limits and when I ask my body a favor, it always says yes.
feeling shame about
the general clutter in my house. I
don’t live in a pristine environment, but I don’t live in filth. For reasons that go back to my childhood,
I've been reluctant to rid myself of things
– until recently, I’ve been comforted by the stuff that surrounds me, and
threatened by those who would strip me of it.
Now I find myself feeling hemmed in by that same stuff that brought me
comfort, and little by little, it’s been leaving my house. Little by little, I've acquired me things – a coffee table, a cat tower,
new silverware and dishes, a storm door – that appeal to my soul, and shed the
things that have begun to weigh heavily upon me. And I continue – junk to the garbage bin,
books to friends and colleagues, unworn clothes off to Savers, gently used
items to the school’s holiday store – carefully putting the past where it
belongs. In the meantime, my house is
messy – I’m not a housewife, never claimed to be – but I’m tired of caring, of
feeling guilty over what I've not done.
I live alone. If people love me,
my clutter won’t bother them. I’m tired
of feeling shame over a dish left in the sink, the laundry left for another
day, a table piled with reading material, or cat toys scattered about.
feeling anger. What is, is.
Here I am in the now, and no amount of anger is going to change how I
got here. So my neglectful parents are
forgiven – I choose to remember the ways they loved me rather than the ways
they pushed me away. They did the best
they could with what they had, as I do for my children. My ex-husband too – I don’t like how he
forced an end to our marriage, but he is the man I chose way back when to be
the father of my children. I choose now
to find his redeeming qualities, not the ones that hurt me. God, who gave me a lifelong sentence, but who
also gave me the chance to experience the keen sweetness of an “I love my
mommy.” I struggle to release the anger
I feel toward the man who made a unilateral decision that broke my son, then
washed his hands of him, but someday I’ll come to it. I’m still working on Reagan.
putting off until
tomorrow. I’ll be happy when I lose
weight, and I’ll lose weight when the warm weather comes. I’ll write when I have the time and I’ll have
time when I rearrange my life. I’ll
crochet/embroider/other craft when I have room in the house and I’ll have room
in the house after I’ve cleared it out.
I’ll save money when my children are independent, and I’ll travel when
I’ve saved money. No one is guaranteed
the time or warm weather to come, and I’m not immortal. If not now, when can I do these things? The end of my life may come in 30 years, or
in 1 day. It’s my one life, and I’ve got
to live it now. But I also realize the
folly of too many intentions. I can
easily overwhelm myself with lists, plans, and schedules. My way of handling anxiety is to cover it
over with surface management, so I’m making no schedules for now, no
commitments to feel guilty about later.
All I need do for now is tweak my attitude.
the resentment that
comes from judging others. I try, I
really do. When that driver cuts me off,
I tell myself there might be a good reason he (or she) is driving like a maniac
– a wife in labor, a crisis at home, a child in danger. That pushy person might not have seen me in
the crowd. The store clerk didn’t know I
was here first. Some are hard to explain
away: the man at Starbucks who leaves
his garbage behind for someone else to clean up. The people at Black Friday sales who trample
others in their rush to get cheap(er) electronics. How does one explain greed? Selfishness?
The attitude that rules and etiquette are for other people? Well, I can’t. I cannot explain away the rudeness, the small
hearts, the evil of others. But I don’t
have to carry the weight of judging them either. I can allow the sadness that comes with
seeing injustice, but the resentment is poisonous. I know this will be an ongoing battle for me. Is it human nature to feel “it’s not fair,”
whether for ourselves or on behalf of others?
For now, all I can do is work at it – and perhaps throw out the trash
left behind at Starbucks so no one else has to do it, bless that man’s soul.
Well, I feel better already.
No promises or commitments, just the recognition that I've lived long
enough with these burdens to know when it’s time to relieve myself of
them. Like the items I’m sloughing off
my physical world, these weights need to be shed from my emotional one. Maybe then I can feel I’m no longer
sleepwalking through my life, but waking up.
