It’s interesting to sit and reflect on where I thought I’d be now when I was 25…20…15…
It certainly wasn’t here. 15…oh, 15. We were blissfully ignorant. In some ways I think we all are at 15. 20 brought angry resolve. 25 was resigned determination.
And so, 30. 30 has been a year of cracking under the pressure of too many years of naivety. 30 has been recognizing that sometimes that resolute anger to push forward, and the determination to rise above the pain and “fake it until [I] make it” often winds up doing far more harm than good. 30 has been realizing just how much of the mourning process I’ve ignored and shoved aside, because admitting that I’m NOT where I thought I’d be, and that my plans and goals have had to change because of the state of the rest of me was just not anything that I wanted to acknowledge. Life has a funny way, sometimes, of forcing you to acknowledge these things, though.
I’ve been stuck in the thick grip of apathetic depression since before Thanksgiving. I almost wish I’d hit that crisis state of depression, because this feels almost worse. It’s been months now of feeling bogged down, dragging through wet cement while wearing sand bags, knowing full well that there’s still so much I need to be doing, and the anxiety of the deadlines looms while the tantalizing voice of the depression whispers little singsongs about how it’s pointless to try because we’ll just fail, and how stupid we must be to think we could have done this, and still the guilt of letting a deadline slip by just tightens the knot in the pit of my stomach just a little bit more, all the while still juggling the 15 other balls in my court and catering to my tiny tyrant toddler.
I wasn’t trying to accomplish anything more than getting a post up here for myself, to at least say I’ve done something here since December. I figured it might be nice to have some of my head out in words to read later and mull on. Maybe use them to construct the ladder out of this cement. Who knows.