Some mornings, I wake up and I just don’t have it in me. I know…that sounds horrible. I mean, I muster it. I get it together and I forge on through life, but some mornings it’s like the din of responsibility is so loud I just want to cover my head with a pillow to dull it to a low roar.
I remember this moment when I was 25 or 26. Delilah’s bedroom was still my office because Delilah didn’t exist yet. I was engaged and my wedding was fast approaching but I was nowhere near fitting in to the wedding dress I’d bought at a Vera Wang sample sale. So naturally I was ellipticizing my ass away on the elliptical we’d later sell to make room for a crib and I remember thinking: BEING A GROWN UP IS SO AWESOME.
I don’t know what it was in that particular moment that made me so elated to be me. Endorphins are about as potent a drug as any I suppose, so it’s possible I was just high on my own body chemicals, but I just remember this really pure moment of loving. my. life.
It was my 27th birthday exactly when the realization struck me that my dreams and my reality had not yet collided. Loving my life started to get a little harder then. And six months later when I found myself unemployed and pregnant, as you may know, it got really hard.
The thing is, my life is beautiful now. But it’s so hard for me most days to slow down and see it. And no amount of exercise or any other happy-inducing activity have reproduced those moments of pure bliss that I remember before I became such a disappointment to myself. No matter how not based in reality that may be, no matter what my rational mind says, no matter how many days in a row I go without thinking that life stinks, I can’t seem to dig deep enough to unearth that part of me that once found joy in just living.
I think I’m gonna need a bigger shovel.
Unrelated, this really freaks me out: