24 November 2021
I started writing this in July. Now, it’s November. Actually, there’s only a few days left of November. I couldn’t seem to write the rest of this from the giant hole I found myself in. I felt stuck, or wedged in, perhaps. It was as if I was living smashed inside a life-sized wedgie, barely able to breathe. I watched my life pass me by. All the cards were crashing down. I’ve learned that when your life turns to pure chaos, that’s when the real fun begins. Besides the life crisis, I also found myself with an extra 20 pounds anchored around my stomach. When you feel stuck in life, at work, in your own mind, and in your body, there’s no escaping that shit. Feeling stuck isn’t a cozy feeling and I was so over it. So, I decided to try meditating every morning for a week.
Meditating is one of those things I’ve always known I should do, but never really made an effort to do, let alone part of a daily routine. I’d do it a handful of times per year and call it good. I had no idea if I was “meditating” correctly or not. Sometimes I felt relaxed, but most of the time I couldn’t get my brain to shut the fuck up long enough to be able to think about nothing. Listening to music helped, especially music in another language. I like the song “La Belle de Jour,” by Alceu Valenca. The live version on YouTube is seven minutes long. I decided seven minutes was a great amount of time. It was more than five, but not as big a commitment as ten.
I woke up the next morning, dragged myself from bed, peed, put on headphones and sat for the duration of my meditation jam. It was nice. Like really nice. I didn’t feel rushed, mostly because I had vacated my bed on the first alarm, rather than the fourth. I wouldn’t go as far as to say I was in a positive mood, but not an angry one, like every other morning of my life. I drove to work. The timing of the stoplights and the idiocy of others drivers irked me, per usual, but I didn’t feel irate. I walked into work without the usual anger cloud hanging over my head. Of course, I was at work for less than an hour before I found myself pissed. Meditating didn’t lessen the anger and frustration I felt daily at work, but it took longer to hit, and for me, that was progress.
I forgot to meditate the second day. I was going to bed, paused and thought, “Fuck. I forgot to meditate today.” Did I think about meditating then? Yes, for a split second, but the excitement of going to bed was too great to change my plans. Out of seven days, I meditated five times. It was helpful, but meditating couldn’t fix the giant wedgie I found myself engulfed in. Only I could pick my own wedgie. But at the moment my arms couldn’t reach. I had trouble moving, maybe it was the extra weight, or maybe I had actually gone crazy. I couldn’t seem to form a clear, coherent thought to save my life. I couldn’t blame the weight gain on this, but, boy, did I try.
An insulin pump changed my life. Besides the actual cost, it also cost me 20 pounds. One minute my stomach looked normal, well as normal as it has ever looked, and the next it looked like it could save me from drowning. It’s like my body freaked out, built a thick cushion around my stomach and refused to budge. A lot of diabetics who switch from needles to pumps experience weight gain. I didn’t know this at the time and could not figure out why my body decided to revolt. I’d like to tell you that the extra 20 pounds have dissipated but, alas, they haven’t. I continued to eat healthy and exercise. Even after medication, including injections, to jump start my metabolism and help my body adjust to a new method of receiving insulin, nothing worked. The meds made me dizzy and vomit. I dropped them. No thank you. I’d rather be extra pudgy than throw up.
I started to think my job would somehow kill me. It had already killed my spirit. I felt as though I had lost years of my life. Three years where I questioned my value and experience on the regular. I spent too long watching my boss tear down my coworkers and myself. I’ll never have those years back. They’re gone. Completely wasted. Of course, it wasn’t all bad. I felt like I had made connections with some of the patients and my coworkers. But I had lost faith in myself. And is anything really worth that?
I suppose the only reason I stayed so long was for the benefits. I had good health insurance. And that, I’ve learned is priceless. Shit was still expensive, obviously, but I’d bulldoze through my out of pocket maximum by April or May. Then the rest of the year was cake. Free cake because everything I needed to keep living was covered at no cost to me. It’s a crap system, but I learned how to time it, so that I could get the most out of it. Because the benefits were what they were, it was hard for me to want to abandon them in pursuit of a job I actually might like and wouldn’t make me go crazy as fast. I don’t like that having affordable health insurance is a deciding factor for where I work and live. But for now, it’s the only option.
I needed to move out of the place I rented in the next few months. So, I got on Craigslist and Apartments.com to see what was available. There was plenty available. But nothing in my budget, unless I wanted to live with roommates who would be strangers. That’s hit or miss. I’ve lived with great people and then, one time, I lived with a troll. I can’t do that again. Plus, I’m a 36 year old woman who desires to live alone. Is that too much to ask? If you live in Denver, or most places these days, then yes, that is too much to ask. I felt a bit insulted that my full time, “decent” waged job didn’t allow me to live in, or near, the city in which I worked. That speaks volumes to the wealth distribution in this country. Plus, I am a white woman with a college education. What did this mean for others who didn’t have the same opportunities because they didn’t look like me? Ironically, my job may have been that of an essential worker, but my pay certainly didn’t reflect that.
My mind got stuck in therapy, which meant it also got stuck in day to day living. I grew tired of circling the same issues. I felt like a vulture circling their prey. But the prey was me. So I was a vulture circling my own bullshit. I was going mad. When would I be able to dump the bullshit I’ve been clinging to and dragging around with me all these years? “Never,” I heard an inner voice shout. My head might explode and the only thing that will remain in tact is my old tired ass bullshit. I could feel myself sinking deeper inside the walls of the wedgie.
Countless therapy minutes have been spent talking about my sister. It’s one of my favorite topics to circle back to as many times as possible. Truly, I’m surprised my therapist never dumped me. I’m stuck between not wanting to be a person who doesn’t talk to their sister and a person who refuses to give into someone who will likely cause them and others pain again. Four years have passed since I cut ties with her. At the time she retreated from our family, or at least that’s what it seemed like. Her words banned her from going inside my parents’ house for some time. She didn’t make an effort to communicate much then, and I’m sure the fact that I refused to answer her volatile calls or return her texts didn’t help. I am certain I made the right decision when I decided to disengage. It took years to overcome the guilt that came with that decision.
Lately, we’ve exchanged a few random texts and emails. Just to feel things out. I’m hesitant, and therefore keep our communications limited. My sister and her partner will be attending Thanksgiving at my parents’ house with my brother. I will not be there. While I’d like to be with my family, a part of me is relieved I won’t be there. If I’m not there, I won’t feel the inner pressure and guilt for being the only person who doesn’t think this is a good idea, at least not until there is some understanding from all parties involved. Distance makes a good buffer. It’s not easy being the odd man out. In the past I’ve given in, in order to keep the tranquility, but I’m not willing to do that now and destroy the inner peace that has taken me so long to cultivate and accept.
Experience has taught me that I can’t escape my mind, even with lots of therapy. Pot can help, but it’s only fleeting. My mind will always be at my side, so I decided to make some changes. I put my notice in at work. Just telling people I was leaving made me feel better than I had in a long while. I got lucky when a friend both suggested and helped me get a new job in a new city. So, I moved to the desert and now I have a job that doesn’t require a pep talk in the morning. I don’t have health insurance anymore. But for some reason that scares me less than staying in a place where I may have been comfortable, but so stuck that I didn’t know if I’d ever emerge. Sometimes, a change of scenery can make all the difference.
HALF FULL DECK 