I used to enjoy hiking and snapping pictures along the way. I used to have so many creative ideas, I would jot them down on pieces of paper stacked on my desk. I used to laugh and look forward to spending time with others. I used to write. A lot. But that was before; when I knew (or thought I knew) who I was.
The realization that I am a stranger to myself came slowly.
In January 2015, I filed for divorce after nearly 17 years of marriage. In the 22 months that followed, I went through some of my darkest times. Despite my aversion to medication, I went on an anti-depressant. On the up-side, I stopped crying throughout the day, but instead, have struggled with insomnia and fatigue since then. Now, I’m in the process of getting off the medication. For six years, I had written regularly on my blog- fiction, poetry, whatever came to me. It used to be easy, but then words left me. I couldn’t even respond to comments people had left on my final post announcing that I didn’t write anymore.
Several weeks ago, my therapist asked if I was happy. I hesitated and responded that I was content enough. A week after that, my boss requested that I send her a list of goals for 2017. I had nothing. The more I thought about it, the more obvious it became that I wasn’t really content – I was busy. I have a ‘to-do’ list that keeps me occupied, and that keeps me from thinking (and feeling).
This admission to my therapist resulted in a homework assignment: think of things that make me happy and do them and report back at my next appointment in December.
Sounds easy enough, right?
In the ten days since that appointment, I have nothing. I’ve stayed busy because there is no shortage of things to do, but I understand that I can’t expect to find meaning in my life if I don’t look for it. This blog is my attempt to hold myself accountable and document my progress as I deliberately live each day in search of who I am supposed to be.