I’ve been accommodating a lot of shit. And I’m not talking the softer kind that easily releases without much traction; I am referring to the hard-core stuff that tears veins and causes you to pause with frustration as you anticipate each effort and ponder whether your threshold of discomfort can possibly bear another major dump.
Some of us don’t stick around to find out and I totally get why. Life is hard man! Especially when you are surrounded by people that make it look easy. We’ve been conditioned to believe that no matter how high the mountain or overwhelming the obstacle, we can remain sturdy because we’ve been built to last.
I guess that means we can’t just throw in the towel and wave the white flag like generic losers, but rather face the challenges head on and live for the day when we can look back with pride and own the fact that we made it to the other side.
We are supposed to be Survivors!
It sounds pretty inspiring especially when you are trying to convince somebody else but when you are forced to be your own cheerleader, you really start to question and wonder if God actually does give us more than we can handle — just to see if we have the guts to stick around for more.
A lot of us are pretty gutsy — I know I am. I have also made horrible mistakes and tragic decisions that have led me where I am today. But there is also the deception of bad luck that can’t be avoided or foreshadowed.
For instance, I had no idea that when I decided to give up my life in New York and move to New Orleans — I would end up moving in with a hoarder for three months. I should have left as soon as I arrived but I stayed out of stubbornness and regret. That was a bad decision because I blew threw my credit cards and now I am in debt.
Now, if I had decided to head back to New York a couple of days later, I bet you anything I wouldn’t be the languishing gypsy I am today. Better yet, if my friend hadn’t didn’t harbor a debilitating disorder, I would probably still be in New Orleans — thriving and adequately satisfied with my existence. Or maybe not. I will never know.
What I do know is that we are shaped by how we view things and this in turn charts every step we take towards or away from whatever we desire.
Before my present madness — I had a plan and that plan worked like a charm because I believed it. I believed that I could quit my disgustingly miserable job in corporate America and pursue a writing career. I even wrote all about it and it was received glowingly. Strangers and friends were encouraging and secretly admired my determination to just go for it!
It felt good to issue my official fuck you to a life that I could no longer mentally sustain. The following months were spent working hard to make the visions that were fighting for space in my brain come alive. And they did.
I was literally living out the hopes and dreams that once seemed so far fetched but yet totally attainable. I was getting recognized for my work and attracting the attention of reputable media companies. But that was then and….this is now.
This is the really bad part — this is when shit hits the fan and even though I am still covered in it and stink so bad that nobody wants to be near me — even the people that I believed would hold their noses but still remain close enough to shield me. So I have mastered the art of being able to manage my stench.
I have no choice but to allow the continued punishment for my misdemeanors because those are the consequences that follow when you essentially sabotage yourself.
I did the work and paid my dues and when the rewards were swimming towards me — I allowed the tides of unreason to carry me to the other direction.
When you fuck up, sometimes you can get back up like nothing happened and sometimes you have to repetitively rise up each time you’re dealt a slew of blows that are pummeling in quick succession until your knees are sore and your soul is weak.
I really screwed things up this time. I like to blame it on my mid-life crisis. Men in their forties usually fuck or marry women twenty years younger and spend most of their retirement on sports cars, yachts, and hair plugs.
I guess women like me lose their goddamn minds.
I lost my mind. I lost my grip and deflated the bubble of expectations. I could’ve been a successful media editor if I had just remembered to prepare for the phone interview. I was almost responsible for constructing attention-grabbing headlines about the Dow Jones or the presidential debates for a global media firm but I fucked that up too.
I am now stuck in the less profitable and more humiliating position of a drifter who takes whatever she can get while holding out for the miracle that I am not sure will come but I believe I deserve after all the mounds of shit I have amassed over the past year.
I have had moments of sheer horror and panic when thoughts of exiting this world made sense in a very calming way. You do find yourself running into the dark tunnel with no torchlight — hoping you will stumble and fall. And maybe crack your head open and bleed to death.
But then there’s the dawn and suddenly you notice that you feel just a little bit lighter, and the regular showers you’ve been taking are cleansing away the awful stuff that has been clogging your pores for way too long.
I have taken way more shit than I ever thought possible and at this stage — I can take a lot more if it will pile up high enough to get me out of this shit hole.
I must confess that I do see the light and it’s getting brighter. It’s that feeling of the plane descending and you brace yourself for that delightful thud that signals that you made it back in one piece.
I am about to land and believe me — if I made it in safely, so can you.
Safe travels! And don’t mind the turbulence, just close, your eyes, breathe, visualize and reap away.