No More Hiding

Over the past few days, I've written this post several times in my head.  Each time with a different title or slightly different angle.  At first, it was going to be about "putting on big girl panties," and well, sucking it up and doing things that I need to do, but don't really feel like doing--like getting up early to get my workouts in, eating my vegetables, keeping track of business expenses, sticking to a budget, putting away laundry and paying bills.  That morphed into a treatise on "self care"--eating well, working out, sleeping, writing, oh yeah--and remembering to breathe.

And then, well, life got a bit more complicated.  Two very special people in my life went through major crises last week.  And suddenly, I grew tired of my own petulance.  Bitching about not being able to sleep in anymore just seemed inconsequential and downright childish in comparison to real problems.  Nothing like a crisis to bring about clarity.  Suddenly, the "shoulds" don't seem like "shoulds" anymore.  They are blessings.  An opportunity to live and live well.  To become a grown-up.

I don't want to hide any more.  From the pain and joy and the full range of emotions that come with living an open and honest life.  We all use crutches--food, alcohol, sleep, bad relationships and a range of unhealthy things--to cope.  To hide.  To numb the pain and the hurt and the exhaustion and overwhelm that is life.

If that means up at 6am to get a run in, giving up my afternoon nap, or forgoing that evening cocktail, I'm all in.   And I need to know what is real and raw and honest--without distractions or crutches or burying my head in the sand.  Please hold me accountable.

Running on Empty

So, I have something to confess.  I slept almost all day yesterday.  Maybe it was the red wine, maybe it was the allergies, maybe it was the hormones, but mostly, it's because I'm exhausted, and I haven't been taking proper care of myself.

Nearly two weeks ago, I hurt my calf during a routine Saturday morning run.  I didn't have my phone, so I limped nearly three quarters of a mile down Peachtree Battle to a friend's store to call my husband for a ride home.

If you know anything about me, you know that I get depressed and cranky when I can't run.  And when I'm depressed and cranky, I don't eat well.  I indulge in too much cheese dip, chocolate and red wine.  I forget to work out.  I don't sleep well.  I lack energy and focus.

To top it off, I've been horrible about managing my schedule.  I'm overbooked, exhausted, running on empty and have no one to blame but myself. 

I usually prepare for the upcoming week on Sunday afternoons--cheery, optimistic and organized.

Four days of endless proposals, meetings, calls, events and late nights later, I collapse in a heap on the sofa, lacking the energy to even return a simple email.  I become paralyzed.  Disillusioned.  Every.  Damn.  Week.

Something has to give.  I can't keep up this pace, or I'll never make it through marathon training this fall or build my business the way I want to.  I need to take better care of myself.  I need to learn to say no.  To trust my gut more.  To delegate.  To give in to the exhaustion and go to bed at 9pm some nights.  To give myself time to breathe and reflect and write and dream.  To spend time with my husband.  To recharge.

Because this pace is unhealthy, it's not smart, and it's making me crazy.

Moving On

So, my ex-husband got married again this weekend.  It's been just about two years since our divorce was finalized, and since I remarried over a year ago, it's not surprising that he's moved on too.  What IS surprising is just how emotional it's made me.  Not because I didn't know he was getting married again (googling took care of that several months ago), or because I want him back, or because I don't want him to be happy.  But because as much as I talk about my journey and my truth, I rarely talk about this one: that after nearly a decade together, I wasn't truth for him.

Yes, I was the bad guy.  I left.  I asked for the divorce.  I refused counseling or reconciliation because I was done, because I knew those Hail Mary-type efforts would only prolong the inevitable.

But I didn't leave just because he wasn't right for me, but because I wasn't right for him.  Sure, he thought I was.  But I couldn't live up to his ideals, his expectations, his illusions of who I was and who I'd come to be.  And I became resentful.  Bitter, angry, withdrawn, sullen.  Not myself.  And no good to myself or to him as a partner.  I did and said many, many things I regret.  I thought I'd made my peace with it a long time ago.  But I really haven't.  Because it's hard to acknowledge that I played a role in the marriage's demise.  That it wasn't just him.  That it was also ME.  And that there's someone out there that can do a better job at being a spouse to him than I could.

"She will love you more than I could.  She who dares to stand where I stood."

- Missy Higgins

It's Not Always About Being Liked

You Like me!  You Really Like Me!

I like people.  Well, most of them.  And I like being liked.  I was never the popular girl in school (except when people needed help studying for AP exams) and have always been quite shy, which I think has only fueled my desire to be well-liked.  To fit in.  To conform.

And even though I've been willing to step out every now and again and say or write things that may be unpopular, to live my own life and not one predetermined for me, I still haven't let go of one thing--being liked.

Being liked feels good.  It's validating.  It's comforting.  It's comfortable.

But life isn't always about comfortable. 

I try to be kind and compassionate and friendly.  But sometimes, people aren't going to like me.  Or what I say.  And it needs to be okay. 

Life isn't always about being liked.  It's about LIVING.