I feel like a fraud, lately.
I’ve been struggling, emotionally, trying to figure out what my life really is, who I am, and where I’m going. And in the process, people are getting hurt.
Because I’ve been sleeping, or rather, pretending to sleep, for a long time.
And I know that I’m as equally at fault as anyone else.
Because I let it happen.
I stayed silent, where once – I would have been speaking my mind.
I let things slide, where once – I would have taken a stand.
And I buried my own needs, emotional and otherwise, for the good of others.
I was raised to believe that everyone else’s happiness was more important than my own. That, if there was time, in my spare moments, I could etch out a little happiness for myself, but to make sure that everyone else was seen to first. Because it was all about helping others realize their potential happiness.
Being a good hostess, being a good friend, being a good daughter, sister, cousin, being a good mother and wife. Making sure that the family had all the best I could give them, no matter the cost. Being the caretaker and the guide. The teacher and the counselor. These were the things that mattered most. Your own happiness is always secondary, an afterthought.
I know that some might call this a mid-life crisis, and try to write it off as a momentary flash of insanity. But that’s not true.
It’s actually a flash of sanity, in an insane life.
I wrote to some friends that:
“There is no one, single defining moment that can be found, explained, or defended. There is only the moment when suddenly, one day, you wake up and wonder where you are, how you got here, and who the hell is that looking back at you in the mirror.
I woke up recently. And I’m still not sure I like the person in the mirror.
So, I’m setting out to change my reflection to one that I can not just live with, but respect, and have confidence in. And the only person that can make those changes – is me.”
This is the reason why I chose to do fiction last week, because the headspace I was in, was not really for public consumption. Fiction was so much safer than real life.
Last night, I told my husband of almost 13 years, that I want a divorce. And I moved down into the basement bedroom, to provide us both with some space. The living situation in our city right now, is not really conducive to either of us leaving at this time. There’s almost literally, nowhere to go. And so, I’ve moved to the spare bedroom, recently vacated by EldestDaughter.
So please, dear readers, forgive me if I lapse into random moments of fiction now and again. Sometimes, truth is more painful than fiction.