Making a decision

When I was very young – I’m not sure how old, exactly, but young – I wrote a note to my parents. It’s a note that still sits, framed, on my mom’s desk. In a very large, very child-like scrawl, “Dear Mom and Dad, i have descided to be independant.”

I suppose that should have been a clue for how the next 20 years would be. As long as I can remember, I have been That Kid. The one that planned her Halloween costume in February. The one that ran every single year for class office (and lost every single year, too.) The one that failed math in middle school because they made me do they same problem over and over and over again – but still managed to make it to the honor roll. The one that The one that took every AP class she could in high school. The one that took 19 credits, did competitive speech and debate, and had two jobs throughout college.

I have always been striving, working, just in general worrying very much about what will happen, how I can plan for it, what the next move is going to be and the 6 steps I’ll take after that disaster might be. I make lists. I have excel spreadsheets that would make most accountants cry. I rarely let more than 5 or 6 items sit on my desktop at any one time. At one point, I nursed a caffiene habit that started with 8 shots of espresso in the first hour I was awake.

This isn’t to say I was this uptight about everything. I hate doing the dishes, and more often than not let them pile up. I can be terrible about returning emails and phone calls. I have avoidance skills that (as my exes can attest to) can be quite mighty. I always told myself that’s because I was Stressed Out.

I truly tried to nurture my creative side, and I can honestly say some of the moments I was happiest was when I was awake at three in the morning, madly typing out some poem that wouldn’t leave my brain alone; or contorting myself into some weird, probably dangerous position to get The Perfect Photograph. Far too often, though, I let my Stressed Side get the better of my Creative Side. I quit doing poetry slams because I was frustrated with myself for not having my poems memorized, for not getting better scores. I let photography fall by the wayside because it didn’t Serve a Purpose… and not having a functioning camera made that far too easy of an excuse to make.

A year or two ago, I got laid off from my job – and I wish I could say that’s when the realization hit me. It wasn’t, though. Instead, the nine months I was laid off I spent making sure I had lots of other things to stress me out. I started a business, I made job-hunting a full time job, I stressed out over not getting more housework done, not being the perfect housewife, not gardening more, not getting it Just Right. When I got another full-time job, it was a Big Marketing job that I told myself I would love. I had responsibilities, I had people to answer to, I even got to make spreadsheets. Things happened, and I moved on. To another, even more stressful job.

Then I realized, among other things, that I was in that pattern again. I was stressing out – and doing more of it to myself than I needed to. By this point, I’d been in that cycle so many times that the span between Point A of starting a project and Point C of being so stressed out I avoided the issue was getting shorter and shorter. Working between 50 and 70 hours a week at just one job didn’t help at all either. I gained weight – and a fairly significant amount (though, when you are my size, an extra 20 pounds is a relatively small percentage of body weight to add on.) I stopped sleeping well, when I did sleep. In general, I wasn’t healthy.

Not surprisingly, I ended up unemployed again. About at that point is when it really did hit me. I have spent the last 25 years trying to grow up too quickly. Trying to prove way too much to myself and others. Trying so badly to be A Better Person. Instead of succeeding at all of that, though, I was burning myself out. I saw where I was headed, and it wasn’t good. I hadn’t had a chance to sit back and realize exactly how lucky I was. I had a boyfriend / fiancee who loved me and supported me in most everything I did or wanted to do. I had a beautiful house to live in. I had a family, and a family of friends that were more wonderful than anyone could ask for. So why the heck was I stressing out so much?

A very long and fortunate set of circumstances later, I did end up with another job. It’s a job I don’t have to stress out about. I can ride the bus to work, mostly not worry about what’s going on at work, even if it’s a Big Deal, and enjoy myself after work. I am dipping my toes into waking up my creative side again. I am truly trying to be less stressed and more at peace.

It’s not always an easy truce with my brain. There are days I worry I am not doing enough. There are days I wish I could do more. There are days I think that I am “Not Making Use Of My Talents.” There are still days I drink four shots of espresso, though now it’s more to feel a buzz than to keep myself from falling asleep. I think, though, that I am finally growing up. And growing up doesn’t have to mean being Perfect. Growing up also does not mean getting the great job, the amazing benefits, the great car, and the great house. Growing up means finding a place inside of yourself that is at peace – and balancing with it.

At least, that is what I am hoping. I will always have hare-brained ideas, and will probably always stress more than a Zen master would recommend. Finally, though, I think I have succeeded in becoming independent; it’s just that nobody told me it would be an internal, not external, struggle.