I'm feeling itchy and unsatisfied and panicked. Maybe I am unhappy. Maybe I don't know how to be happy. Maybe I only show up as myself at work. Who are my children seeing? They do not seem happy, but maybe that's just because they don't see anyone showing them how.
What do I do for fun, a long-ago friend asked over lunch when we ran into each other randomly after years. I don't have fun. I clean my house, read books, listen to podcasts, do puzzles. I've never been a "go place, do things" kind of person, but my world seems increasingly small and intimate and ... how is this different from COVID?
I listened to Glennon Doyle's podcast for the first time the other day, and I spent some time tonight dipping back into her books, and it was like catching glimpses of myself in dark rooms as I walked through someone else's house. Oh shit. I think I have to start saying the hard, brave things to my husband instead of just disappearing. I think I have to do that to show my kids how to do that.
Maybe then I can stop eating to feel good and feel special and loved and cared for. Maybe then I can lose the extra weight and feel good about my body, feel sexy and alive again.
Glennon talked about yoga, and I suddenly remembered how much I loved going to yoga. Loved feeling my body feel strong. Not so much with the perfectionism, but even listening to when my body said "Not today!" was good practice. Being kind. Letting "enough" be enough.
I'm the last one in the house that isn't in therapy, and I think that's where I'm headed. But why can't we turn to each other instead? Training, maybe. Degrees in this shit. Insight and patience and perspective. Yes, all of that.
Maybe I want yoga instead. Who wants to spend more time in their unhappy head?
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