I lost my job 2 weeks ago.
It was painful… and slightly crippling.
It’s still sinking in.
Allow me the pleasure to share my current state of mind:
1. What do you do when you suddenly have 40-60 hours of free time that you didn’t have before? Like seriously, what do people do on Tuesday mornings and Wednesday afternoons? This is a mystery to me.
2. Are we serious with all of the emotions? Literally. Fear, resentment, excitement, guilt, loss, trepidation, anxiety, failure, hope, trust, anger- and how the h-e-double hockey sticks, do I handle them like a mature adult? (FYI: tantrums don’t work and neither does driving aimlessly. However, planting flowers and cleaning your house will do wonders)
3. Do I have too many options now? Or do I not have enough? Do I not have the right options? Or do I just need to crawl into a hole? (Update: Haven’t found a suitable hole)
4. Fine. I’ll just go live in a vintage camper selling antiques and clever wares.
5. Is this what it feels like to be free to dream again?
6. I have a new license, it allows me to shoot off wild texts filled with all of the things I really think, but scattered with just enough sarcasm and snark to pass as dramatic and not at all as truth. This license will no doubt expire when I have to get back to being a normal adult who is not in crisis.
7. One time someone told me I would win the Hunger Games and look good doing it. This is the best compliment I’ve ever received and I’ve determined there has to be a way I can pursue a job that fits that form. (It is now on my growing list of employment pursuits.)
8. I really love the people in my life. Truly. Blessing upon blessing.
9. I missed reading, and writing, and the space to actually see all of the parts that make up the sum my life.
10. Now I remember why I quit writing all those months ago… and why number 9 has literally brought me to tears daily.
And that’s where I’m going to park it.
Numbers 1-8, oh they are just a result of numbers 9 and 10 when it comes to my life.
Because seeing all of your mess scribbled on sheets, in bold print, makes the blotchy accounting of your journey a little too real, a little too easy to touch.
Instead, I battle insomnia, I drive around aimlessly, I go eat a banana… even though I have allergic reactions to them, and sometimes I just lay in bed thinking of all the different scenarios that could be played out in the current scene of my saga- truly the most unhealthy of said options. I tend to avoid taking account of the moments, because once they’re written down, they scare me.
It is as if I’m coming out of the water after nearly drowning, only to be crushed by a wave that shoves me making me feel like I’ll never regain my balance. The constant recounting of each emotion, each conversation, each blow of the past 2 weeks, is like wave after wave hitting me while I am down. The ink carving it’s way into my silhouette like the water that carves a new form in the beach pebbles- wearing them down layer by layer.
There it is though, the beauty of the retelling and the remembering. The scribbling of thoughts, the act of putting pen to paper helps me take on that new form. The waves continue to crash against me as I look for my footing, but they don’t trudge me out to sea like I thought they would… they help me traverse to the shore, they carry me to a sandbar to give me rest, they push me to a rock for salvation.
The waves, the writing, the chronicling of the journey… it’s leading me to a new place and to a new form.
I just have to learn how to kiss the wave.