I have made mistakes and I hold on to regrets. They play like a movie in my mind -- It’s a three-parter, an all day movie extravaganza. It’s a tape that automatically rewinds and replays. This tape does not even shut off in my sleep; those regrets visit my dreams.
When I was 22, I made a mistake. It seemed insignificant at the time, but little did I know, the choice would haunt me forever.
This is not a story with a happy ending. Few stories are. The ending isn’t sad, either, but this story is true and it’s mine. Does it have to be one or the other?
Sometimes my sadness wakes up from its nap like an angry toddler, ready to hit and claw and fight to be seen and recognized, paid attention to. Nothing makes the sadness go away. Sometimes it goes out with the tide, and sometimes it just ebbs and flows.
It is a scar that I forget I have until the next bathing suit season. Then I have to come to terms again -- and I do.
I am always working on myself. I am a work in progress. That is why I read so much:
I horde words and phrases.
I suck up other’s experiences.
I am a habitual relater -- an obsessive connector.
When you go to bed in pain -- maybe you worked out that day -- and you wake up still in pain and it surprises you? That’s sadness. It greets me first thing, reminding me of its whereabouts.
It’s looking around after zoning out while driving to realize I’ve reached my destination.
It’s walking outside when I’ve been inside with the heater on full blast, and being SHOCKED at the freezing, biting-cold-wind whipping.
How do I overcome this?
I believe in enough. I take care of myself. I participate daily in my own kind of therapy. I listen to music. I read books -- real ones -- because I need a break from technology.
I believe in surviving. Sometimes that’s enough. Sometimes surviving is living, and sometimes it’s not.
According to the dictionary, enough means “sufficiently for the purpose.”
We need enough -- no more, no less.
I have happiness that is sufficient for my purpose as a wife, mother, teacher, and friend. I have contentment knowing God the Father.
I am giddy when I’m with my family: my parents, my husband, my children. They are my delight. I delight in my children. I see them play, and I watch them grow. I try to be smart enough, kind enough, fun enough. And I am adequate.
In order to not be disappointed, I think we have to prepare ourselves for the enough, for the reasonable. I’ll quote Stevie Nicks here: “To the gypsy that remains, she faces freedom with a little fear. Well I have no fear. I have only love. And if I was a child and the child was enough, enough for me to love. Enough to love.” To whatever your child is, you’re enough.
It’s enough. Is it your career? Faith? Art? Travel? Cats? Comic books? Cars? Make it enough.
When I was 22, I made a mistake. It seemed insignificant at the time, but little did I know, the choice would haunt me forever.
This is not a story with a happy ending. Few stories are. The ending isn’t sad, either, but this story is true and it’s mine. Does it have to be one or the other?
Sometimes my sadness wakes up from its nap like an angry toddler, ready to hit and claw and fight to be seen and recognized, paid attention to. Nothing makes the sadness go away. Sometimes it goes out with the tide, and sometimes it just ebbs and flows.
It is a scar that I forget I have until the next bathing suit season. Then I have to come to terms again -- and I do.
I am always working on myself. I am a work in progress. That is why I read so much:
I horde words and phrases.
I suck up other’s experiences.
I am a habitual relater -- an obsessive connector.
When you go to bed in pain -- maybe you worked out that day -- and you wake up still in pain and it surprises you? That’s sadness. It greets me first thing, reminding me of its whereabouts.
It’s looking around after zoning out while driving to realize I’ve reached my destination.
It’s walking outside when I’ve been inside with the heater on full blast, and being SHOCKED at the freezing, biting-cold-wind whipping.
How do I overcome this?
I believe in enough. I take care of myself. I participate daily in my own kind of therapy. I listen to music. I read books -- real ones -- because I need a break from technology.
I believe in surviving. Sometimes that’s enough. Sometimes surviving is living, and sometimes it’s not.
According to the dictionary, enough means “sufficiently for the purpose.”
We need enough -- no more, no less.
I have happiness that is sufficient for my purpose as a wife, mother, teacher, and friend. I have contentment knowing God the Father.
I am giddy when I’m with my family: my parents, my husband, my children. They are my delight. I delight in my children. I see them play, and I watch them grow. I try to be smart enough, kind enough, fun enough. And I am adequate.
In order to not be disappointed, I think we have to prepare ourselves for the enough, for the reasonable. I’ll quote Stevie Nicks here: “To the gypsy that remains, she faces freedom with a little fear. Well I have no fear. I have only love. And if I was a child and the child was enough, enough for me to love. Enough to love.” To whatever your child is, you’re enough.
It’s enough. Is it your career? Faith? Art? Travel? Cats? Comic books? Cars? Make it enough.