birthday reflections
In the past, the schedule of the last two weeks would have crippled me. But instead of being crippled, I’ve handled it with grace. This is such a turnaround for me over the past few years.
Oh, there was stress. I was harried, and hurried, and sleep-deprived, over-caffeinated, and faced with coauthors who couldn’t pull their own weight, and situations which went from looking not so bad to looking pretty damn terrible. But no matter what happened, the stress never roiled high enough to disturb my life. It didn’t stop me from being able to look at the work before me; I wasn’t preoccupied with thoughts of failure, or what awful things would befall me if I did indeed fail. I was able to do my best and my utmost to succeed… and believe that things would work out fine, even if I couldn’t, even if my best wasn’t good enough and the project failed. I didn’t flip out. My stress didn’t bubble over into anger and it didn’t spill out on any innocent bystanders. Instead of hassling E. into helping me, nagging him to work harder, I backed off because he was having such a hard time. And that’s what felt right; I wasn’t wishing I could nag him more, I was satisfied in my actions as a good friend and believed in what I was doing.
I whined a bit, but it was half-hearted whining—a turnaround, for me. My friends have noticed that something is different with me, this time. And so I thought I’d write about it.
There’s a calm on the surface of my mind now which cannot be disturbed by turbulence below. I can feel the stress and worry, acknowledge it, say “Yes, I’m stressed,” and then go on about my life. I can be cheerful and delighted in the face of it; I can love the life I’ve got, not the one I wish I had.
I’ve been slowly learning that there is nothing in this life, short of death itself, that cannot be gotten through. And that the only fulfillment to be had is in knowing and loving yourself, and knowing and loving others. In that order: yourself, and then others.
I began learning this lesson when I broke up with David. The perfect storm of fraud and illness that destroyed my finances served as lesson number two. Lesson number three was finally accepting that my mother doesn’t love me, through no fault of hers and no fault of mine. And finally, realizing that I shouldn’t marry Justin (and acting on that realization with integrity) was lesson number four.
I’m sure there will be others.
I’ve failed spectacularly and repeatedly. I’ve succeeded beyond all rational measure.
It’s probably easy to say from this vantage point, but the success doesn’t mean much to me. What does mean so much to me is feeling at home in my own skin, no longer torturing myself with thoughts of what I did wrong or could have done better or shouldn’t have thought, much less acted out. And being able to feel the joy and pain of my friends and caring so much more about them than any goal. And spending time with those I care about, recharging my batteries, and feeling, finally, that I have people who care about me for no other reason than who I am — and with them, I am myself.
These are the lessons I have learned (and am in the process of learning):
To be gentle with myself.
To not hide—not who I am, not from my problems.
To try and love strongly, even if it seems risky.
That I’d rather stick my neck out than play it safe.
To not barter my time on this earth for some empty yardstick of success, that nothing anyone else can bribe me with is worth my life.
To remember to appreciate the innumerable pleasures afforded me simply by being human and alive.
That the only thing you can truly control in life is whether you act with integrity.
Above all, I’ve learned to be grateful. I’m grateful for everything that has happened to me, that I have gone through, that I have done to myself. It doesn’t matter how bad it was, because this is what it added up to.
If I reread these words, I tear up. I could cry over this. I couldn’t describe the exact emotion that brings the tears to my eyes… wistfulness, maybe. It hurts, but in a way that feels right. And I am grateful.
I know this is an ongoing process. Next week, I might feel different. But that’s why I’m writing this to myself. Some day, I know I’ll come back, and read this, and remember where I’ve been and what it felt like to be at peace.
