So I have had this blog for...oh...a couple years? I have never actually posted anything on it though. I occasionally write something just to vent to myself and then delete it. Sort of like a journal that I burn at the end of the day. There is something to that, symbolically getting it out. I remember as a kid when I would get a wart on my foot my mother would trace my foot on a piece of paper and have me draw the wart on it and then burn the piece of paper while I watched and tell me that it would go away now. It always did. A pretty fascinating exercise in the power of belief and mind over matter. It doesn't seem to be that easy with emotions though. I don't know why I want to have a blog. Part of me thinks I should have one where I write cute witty things about my family life and post pictures of my darling children so that relatives and friends afar can keep abreast of what's going on with my life. And I may start a separate one for that purpose. But that seems so surface. On the other hand I want to just write anything and everything that I find in me to write and send it out into the void and hope for....what? Validation? That some random person out there will stumble across it by accident and read and think there is something interesting about it? Why do people do this? Why don't I feel comfortable being true and authentic to the people in my life up close and in person?
I'm 31. Something I have yet to fully wrap my head around. As I approached the big 3-0 I had a lot of my older friends and acquaintances tell me that they loved being in their thirties, that it was the time when they finally figured themselves out. I also have a friend who is an astrologer and she said that your late twenties are generally a pretty awful time in life because you go through an identity crisis and start questioning everything about yourself and about life in general. So far I have found both of these assessments to be true. I feel like I was adrift at sea in a howling storm for the last few years and now the clouds have cleared and it's time to take stock of the damage to my boat and try to figure out how the hell I'm gonna get to land. But at least the sun is out.
I feel this overwhelming need to try to define myself. I have learned a lot about myself in the last year or so and I'm trying to just view it all objectively and try to use it to improve myself. I have ADHD. Something I was only officially diagnosed with in December. Even though I sought the evaluation and agreed with the diagnosis, I think I went through a grieving period. And went through the classic 'stages of grief.' Denial. I thought maybe I was just searching for something to blame my problems on and I couldn't possibly have this affliction, other people had problems, not me. It just wasn't true, there had to be something else. Anger. I was angry that I hadn't figured it out sooner. Angry that no one else in my life knew enough to notice the signs, that I wasn't self aware enough to figure it out sooner. Bargaining. I wouldn't say that I did the classic bargaining with God because I don't think of God in that way. But I did do a lot of "well if I had just done this, or thought that, or...or...If I had just..." Depression. It came in waves. I'd be going through my day trying to keep a positive attitude and then suddenly I'd feel overwhelmed by all the years of not knowing, all the what ifs, all the opportunities wasted, and guilt for feeling regret. I felt despair, like there was no hope that things would improve. That I would always be a mess and never ever get my shit together. Acceptance. I think I have arrived. Which is not to say that I'm all smiles and sunbeams and totally okay with it. But I have accepted the diagnosis and decided to try to use it for good. To try to 'figure myself out.' Maybe it seems strange to look at it this way, that I was grieving. For what? Nobody died. Well no, not really. But I suffered a loss. I lost the person I thought I would become when I was younger. I lost time, lots of time.
I don't feel any older. I still feel like a teenager most of the time. But somewhere inside I know I am getting older. I see people in their twenties and at first I don't feel any older than them, but as far as my life goes, I'm MILES away. I never had the classic twenties experience. I didn't date or have a group of friends I hung out with. I didn't go out drinking or travel. I didn't finish college and start building a career. Every so often I envy them. Some for their carefree attitude. Or some their drive to secure their place in the world. I met my husband young and got knocked up. I don't mean this to sound like regret, because it's not. I try never to regret because any decision I had made differently would have led me in a different direction and I probably would not have the husband I do and the kids I have. I can't imagine them not existing. It's like they have always been a part of my life. But I have no problem saying that the first pregnancy was definitely not planned and I was scared to death when I found out. I was 22. My husband was awesome about it (though he was just my boyfriend at the time). He was very adamant that having a baby was not going to ruin my life or take anything away from me but add something to it. He was absolutely right. I know he was freaking out in his own way and for his own reasons but he never wavered in his insistence that it was a good thing. So after I got over the initial shock and denial I said to myself "You can choose to be happy about this." And after that, I was. I never looked back. I reveled in being pregnant and embraced motherhood. I surprised myself in fact. I had no experience with children, I did very little babysitting. I never noticed babies before. But once I gave birth and met my son it was like that first hit of heroine. Actually I don't know if that's a good analogy or not, I've never done drugs. But I was hooked. After that I noticed every baby I passed and was obsessed. This is not to say it was an easy time for us. But that's a long story, perhaps later. But let's just say I spent my twenties being mom. I had my first son at 23, my second at 25, and my third last year at 30. Every so often I would see people who had spent their twenties working hard, saving money, and by the time they had kids well into their 30's they had a house and a nice car and a savings account. None of which I have! But they also struggled with the dreaded "going back to work." Suddenly they found themselves torn between the career they worked so hard for and truly enjoyed, and staying home with this new being. I never had to make that decision, I wasn't missing out on anything. I didn't have a career or a clear cut path in life. I wasn't giving anything up. This was my new career, my new path. Don't get me wrong, it would have been nice to have more money going into this. Or even more right now. But we agreed that we didn't want our children raised in a daycare and committed ourselves to making it work. We've had to get creative and it hasn't always worked out the way we wanted. But I've been there for my kids since day one. Good or bad. And I kept telling myself that once my kids were in school then I could focus on myself and figure out what I wanted to do and I would be older and more mature and go into it with a clearer idea of what I wanted. Which I think may be true. But I haven't gotten to that part about maturity and clear ideas yet.
So I think that is why I suddenly feel the need to write this all out. I want to go through all the things I think define me and try to find a path for my life. Will blogging about it help? Maybe. Will anyone read it? Maybe. Will my ADHD get in the way of me sticking with this? I hope not....