I can rationalize how lucky I am. An amazing husband, two irresistible kids, and what I once thought was a tired cliche but I now realize is a true blessing, health. For the most part, my family is healthy. Sure I have a sore back, my husband has heartburn and insomnia, and a second cousin in Minnesota is in her sixth rehab stint. My dad is finishing chemo on his third cancer (one for each of his wives) and I lost my mom recently. At least it still feels recent, although it has been a year and a half already. But she did not suffer. And from what I understand, I should be grateful that I do not have the memories of her weak in a hospital bed.
And with the loss of my mom, I did find a little more career direction, as I’ve assumed her role as a real estate manager.
But there is part of me that is still a little girl with many of the same insecurities that plagued me when I was younger. While I can rationally say that some of are unfounded or insignificant, like my feelings towards my weight or friendships. Does someone really like me? Am I doing all of the initiating? Is the friendship reciprocal? Ridiculous, I know, but at times these feelings pop up.
Nothing like a visit from a sister for me to revert to the characteristics I had when I was younger. Namely, I’m not enough. A roll of her eyes may no longer hold the same weight as an eye roll from my mom, but it still effects me. I’m making progress in not letting it affect me, but when she criticizes my taste or child rearing skills, it seeps in to my subconscious.
And then there is my dissatisfaction with myself. How I want to have accomplished more. Certainly this is a universal feeling, but I feel that I should have achieved more literary success. I doubt I’ve put in the hours to warrant such desire, and I’ve probably made more trips around that hamster wheel than necessary. And yet here I am in my office doing anything I can to avoid returning to my novel. I’m just a few clicks away from finding out how cheap I can buy meds in Canada.
Emotions are rarely rational. And so it makes sense that I am not always optimistic. A therapist once advised that I fake it til I make it, meaning pretend to be happy and eventually I will feel that way. My 92 year old grandma continues to remind me to count my blessings and just focus on all that is wonderful. So I try. And I rant in my blog. And you read it. Thank you.