An Odd Dream

What a difference a month makes.

The last month has been out of an odd dream I can’t seem to wake up from. An odd but forgettable one where I am home, on my couch or upstairs in my bedroom, with bouts of disinfecting grocery deliveries, countertops, light switches and doorknobs maniacally, feverishly washing hands and where I take intermittent walks that consist of waving to my neighbors from afar or dodging people and cars that come too close because if they do, I might catch a strange virus that may or may not kill me or anyone I come into contact with.

This odd dream feels like something I would struggle to remember but retain enough detail to recount it to my husband as he’s preparing to head out the door for the day. An odd dream that I would share with a co-worker who would then ask: What did you watch before you went to sleep last night?

But it is all real.

This oddity is real.

I have been home since March 13th. I have been to a grocery store and a pharmacy (on the same day) once since then and have not eaten take out either. Competing in a Strongman on March 7th feels like it happened in an alternate reality.

Because it was.

I am not a doom and gloom person but I can be an anxious one. I am not in a state of panic but perhaps the privilege and the blessing of a fully employed household working from home, good books, loving family and friends and distracting technology affords me that peace.

But psoriasis and Lupus live here so we are a house of people whose immune systems don’t always do exactly as it should.

So where does that leave me?

In a variety of places.

Sometimes mourning the option to go everywhere worry free and sometimes giggling in bed with my husband because his goofiness makes me deliriously happy first thing in the morning.

It has had me fraught with worry a couple times when a cough refused to go but then I realized it’s allergy season and my neighborhood often looks like a pollen dust bowl.

It has also had me praying more, grateful for video calls, journaling, the one N95 mask we had in our linen closet, and telehealth therapy sessions. I have danced to DJs on Instagram, laughed at memes and YouTube videos, cried at people singing in unison in New York and Italy, harmonizing from their windows and balconies. I have raged at the administration and people who won’t stay home, wiped tears for the sick and the dead, signed petitions, donated money, felt restless and helpless and fearful for the homeless, the incarcerated and everyone who has to work outside of the home, ordered and got lost in books. I watched game shows and paused screens to turn to my husband and talk about all of my feelings which I have eaten a few times (see pint of ice cream in my trash).

I will continue to be in all of the places because I know I have no control over the outside world.

Just my inside one.

And that has to be enough.

For now.

Control

Sometimes I tell my husband I am letting go of the idea I need to be in control, he takes a big step back and says he is getting out of the way (because he doesn’t want lightning to strike him).

I try but clearly I am not as successful as I think I am. But there is one thing I am working on letting go of:

The story I told myself about who I am. I have been letting go of it for the past 3 years.

I was telling myself (and others) that I liked to write but I wasn’t a writer.

That I was more of a simple person who wasn’t into changing her hair.

I wasn’t a teacher.

I was completely burnt out by Human Services and couldn’t see myself returning to it in any meaningful way.

But here I am: Looking slightly different, helping men and women start over at a dynamic nonprofit, blogging, publishing articles, writing an E-book journal, speaking, attending inspirational conferences and writing classes and will soon be learning how to fuse my passion for writing and healing others together.

A part of me needed to tell those old stories to lie about how much control I had over everything. But holding on that tight to an old, over told story doesn’t leave room for one thing.

Growth.

Your turn:

What story have you been telling about yourself in order to stay in control?

 

 

The Day After

After #bloglikecrazy (30 days of blogging in November) was over, I still felt like there was something else I had to do. I kept feeling like there was something missing. It’s probably because I had built a habit. I love knowing I wrote every day and when I stopped, there was a longing there. That left no room to doubt that no matter what the outcome, I will always write.

I cannot pretend I will always want to because laziness and frustration are real. But I can’t let laziness and frustration become more of a reality than persistence and consistency. The only thing I can control about this process is my effort. Even through the fatigue I feel right now, it keeps ringing in my head.

The part of me that wants to control everything is driven crazy by the fact I can’t control what happens after a submission, a pitch idea, a fellowship application or a challenge like #bloglikecrazy. But I have learned to treasure the freedom that comes with it, too. I put myself out there, fight my fight  and then let go.

Ask and Then Let Go

In the last week I’ve thought more about letting go than I have in years. By letting go, I mean letting go of control. A few days ago, I had the courage to tell someone what I needed. I may have done it through tears, but I did it. I bring this up because although I asked for what I needed, I am keenly aware that I may never get it.

And I have no control over whether or not I will ever get it.

I believe you can never be at peace if there are needs in your life you have the awareness to ask for but let fear keep you silent. From there, even if you do work up the courage to ask, the peace you seek may not be attained if you don’t accept you cannot control the outcome.

I am learning through shaky voice and tears to walk through the fear of speaking up and letting go once the words are out. Once they are out there, I can’t take them back, reverse time and watch the words slip back down my throat.

If the words need to be said, why would I?