I am not okay.
I am, but I’m not. Life is always an adventure and a bit of an uphill battle. Yet I find myself struggling even more than usual as things like health issues, insecurities of freelancing, home upheavals, desire, and the overall current chaotic status quo of life and the world are ever looming in the back and even foreground of daily existence. What a time to be alive.
The predictable New Year, New Me posts are running around the internet as we enter the third week of 2022. The usual ten year challenge is circulating with side by side pictures from 2012 and 2022 to show their glow ups. I may include my own, but I have not decided yet. Motivational posts are even more prevalent than usual in my feed, which is saying something considering the majority of women in my life are positive-look-how-far-you’ve-come-manifesting people. I am very much not that.
There are lots of motivational things that really grate my soul, but the current, and so far longest lasting, motivational mantra that makes me want to move to the wilderness and quit all human interaction is any and all renditions of the following variations on:
“Think about how proud your past self would be if they could see you now.”
“Your past self would be so proud of you right now.”
“There is a past version of you that is so proud of how far you have come.”
“If the version of you from five years ago could see you right now, they’d be so proud.”
Gack! Absolute pukerific.
Maybe one day, I can get on board. But at thirty, knowing who I was at fifteen, twenty, twenty-five… hate to tell these motivational humans: Past me would be soooo disappointed. There are past me’s who would be angry with the woman writing this. Even twenty-nine year old me would be a bit confused by the choices I made over the last year. I don’t think these posts are directed at high achievers who were absolutely gutted by some unfortunate tragedies of existing. In my youth, I had high hopes, big dreams, and a certain lack of empathy for seeing how life exists in shades of grey. At fifteen, I knew exactly what I wanted for my future and fell prey to the belief that with enough hard work and dedication, success is guaranteed… Call me a cynic, but that’s just not how life and success (which is highly personal and not at all one size fits all) works; privilege, opportunity, education, health, society, connection, gender, race, a bit of luck are all important details the American Dream conveniently leaves out. I digress. At twenty, I saw the same future for myself but with a far greater understanding of life’s grey scale. At twenty-five, my envisioned future started aligning more with my actual passions and abilities rather than a future I decided to want based on what had been deemed worthy according to societal pressures and my own desire to stick it to men.
Future I Wanted at 15-23
I wanted to have a power house career in the corporate world. Suits and heels. Sitting at a desk in a high rise with a view. Making so much money I could buy a Burberry purse and wear Louboutins—not everyday but, you know, have them in my closet. Sipping martinis at a swanky bar with my fellow powerful business lady friends after work. Going home to my quirky yet very classy one bedroom apartment and dog and settling into silk jammies and drinking wine on the couch as I read. Hopping on planes to go on adventures in five star hotels around the world. Maybe meet a person who likes the same things and never wants to get married or have children.
Future I Wanted at 25
Basically the same except change the corporate America bit to be a successful memoirist, freelance writer, and stand up comic with goals of being a writer for film and TV working mostly from my home office except when remarkably cool projects took me onsight somewhere. Also my swanky apartment would need to have a study because fuck working in an office.
Present
I’m going to be far more transparent about my life as it is than I care to be, but I would be a terrible writer if I turned away from things that scare me.
At 23, I was on a path to make my future a reality. I ended up in a job that I was very good at which would lead to financial prosperity, in part because I was on track to make six figures before 25 combined with the fact my car was paid off and I had no debt. Burberry and red bottoms were almost tangible at 23. After two months, I realized I was fucking miserable. Being great at a job does not guarantee happiness. Before I turned 24, I knew I was going to walk out of the door because I was not a suit up for work kind of woman the way I had thought and hoped I was. I willingly and happily walked away from the future I had worked incredibly hard for to be poor and change the world… Okay be poor and try to change the world.
My health is fucking shit. There were two years where I spent a lot of money seeing specialists trying to figure out how to get better. I gave up. There’s only so much “You’re fine” a person can hear when things are clearly not fine. I have spent months at a time stuck at home unable to leave because I’m debilitated. It’s hard to write or even find work when I’m so weak walking to the bathroom is almost impossible. I would be lying if I said there weren’t days where I would make a comfy nest of pillows and blankets in the bathroom with water and books because I was unable to go from couch to bathroom quick enough. Oh chronic illness. I’ve been enjoying a fairly tame period, so knock on wood, yay.
Financially… I hate life. I love my job. I would love my job more if I made money. I make money, but COVID fucked it all up. I was really on my way to doing quite well when COVID showed up. I had niched myself as a freelance writer for women, creatives, and travel. Three areas that were hit incredibly hard by COVID? Yes. When my clients’ lives are thrown for a loop, my income falters. I am not in a financial spot where I can support myself. I also have this really awful problem of letting people take advantage of me financially… To the point it has put me in a not great spot. Like actually really bad. Only took me thirty and a half years to get here, but I’m working on setting some firm boundaries, but I’m terrible at it. Upside, I know why I’m like this, but it’s a long story, and I don’t care to share.
Saying this always feels very self-indulgent, but it’s objectively not untrue. I was dealt a rough hand when it comes to life. Growing up in a house steeped in toxicity and abuse, I was not set up for success on a personal level; though it did push me to succeed academically so I could get the fuck out. Hey, did that at least. All of this was quickly followed by years of rape and abuse at the hands of men. I spent my twenties emotionally coming to terms and owning just how fucked up and unstable I am and then learning how to cope with it all. I’m stable, but I’m also a gigantic dumpster fire below the surface. My saving grace is my hyper self-awareness that lets me publicly own the fact I’m the homeless person riding in the back of the struggle bus so no one can shame me or leave me under the pretense of hiding it. I also need to add in my depression, PTSD, and occasionally crippling anxiety.
Also I have six dogs, own a house, and live in the United States with a man. I very much did not want to have a lot of dogs, own property, live in the U.S., or live with a man. These were things I very much wanted to avoid. Yet here I am.
The only reason I have been able to survive and live the life I lead as a young freelancer with serious health problems is because I’ve made exceptionally great decisions even under duress, I’m fantastic with money (when I make/have it and when I don’t), I took my clothes off in college and therefore have minimal debt. I chose a partner who gave me a place to collapse when my health was [is] poor and as my freelancing career took off and then stalled. I do not want to admit this, but I’m going to because I’m not the only human in this position. I hate being dependent on anyone ever for anything. Yet, I have had to be dependent on my best friend over the last five years for short and long periods of time. From picking me up from the bathroom floor to taking care of our mortgage, he has consistently been my partner. I hate, hate, hate that I’m financially dependent on him. It gives me so much anxiety. It keeps me up at night. It is the one thing I always wanted to avoid and successfully did for years. If you look at the future I wanted, it never included a partner or being dependent on anyone. I have deep seeded issues with avoiding dependence of any kind. If I’m not 100% completely independent, I feel like I’m failing. I like being the successful one, the one with money, the one who’s got it all figured out, but I am not that right now.
Boy, oh boy, do I feel like a failure. I stood in my kitchen an hour ago sobbing because I feel like I have done nothing and am a complete waste of oxygen. Hell, I can’t even support myself and my dogs without assistance. I am struggling mentally more than I have in a long time. I have not made a difference. I make shit for money. I’m exhausted, in pain, and a giant mess. I have failed in every sense to accomplish any of the things I wanted to accomplish. I am so mentally and emotionally depleted that for the last two years, the thought of writing anything meaningful makes me want to disappear. Actually the thought of disappearing makes me feel better.
When people tell me they’re jealous of my life, job, travels, whatever, my immediate thought is what the fuck is wrong with you? There is nothing to be jealous of. I should be a cautionary tale rather than inspire jealousy. My current life shituation makes my skin crawl.
Looking at my life in comparison to the things I wanted for myself five, ten, fifteen years ago… Well, I have absolutely failed. Achieved zero things. I think the only thing twenty year old me would be proud of is the fact I’m not dead. Although the fifteen and twenty-five year old me’s might be disappointed in that fact. Suicide has been a prevalent part of my life’s story. I am not dead. I am probably not even a failure.
Life is not black and white, it is all shades of grey. I’m thirty having achieved nothing that I want to. That’s okay. Thirty is not where life ends, though society leads us to believe it to be so. Maybe I have a long life ahead of me. Maybe I don’t. What I do know is that I’ve lived a hard life. I had to take a good chunk of time off from achieving things other than not dying and keeping the dogs alive. Putting myself back together was more of a priority than chasing bylines or writing books or advocating for change. I can’t do those things if I’m dying inside.
Future I Want Now
My idea of success is vastly different than it was even five years ago. Part of that is because I’ve welcomed my gay identity with open arms and can embrace a future I never imagined for myself. I would love to be financially successful enough to buy a lighthouse in Scotland to write and relax and have a cute house in Houston’s Heights or Montrose neighborhood. But I’ll be content if I can take care of myself, my dogs, and travel here and there. More than anything, I’m chasing happiness. I want to be happy and surround myself with humans who challenge and inspire me. I want to fall in love and stay in love. I want to change the world and create a safe space for people to exist as they are. I want to laugh and cry and be vulnerable. I want to be a source of love and kindness and acceptance in the world. I want things that cannot be quantifiably measured.
My life is not where I want it to be. That goes for all past versions of myself and me as I write this. This is not the life I want for myself, but that doesn’t mean I’m disappointed in the life I’m living. I am old enough to know everything I have done and all the choices I’ve made were best given the circumstances. I’m doing what I have to as I figure out how to survive, get through, and maybe even have a future that doesn’t include an excess of poverty. I do not regret a single thing in my life. I am a culmination of everything I have experienced, and I don’t hate me. I like who I am. I’m even kind of proud of this woman. I’m still alive, and, for me, that’s an achievement. So I’m going to keep trying, being who I am, and I will get to a point where I’m proud of where I am.
bisous un обьятий,
RaeAnna
