Why I haven't been blogging

I haven't been blogging because I was waiting until I had uplifting and amusing stories to write about. I haven't been blogging because I was hiding behind the assumption that "everyone" thought "oh, she's unpacking and in transition and will be back afterwards with amusing and fascinating stories" or something to that effect. I haven't been blogging because I didn't want to tell the truth. I haven't been blogging because I didn't want to admit that I'm not perfectly happy and everything is just grand in my new home. I haven't been blogging because I've blogged before when I'm down (which was a lot of the time), and I didn't want to put that stuff out there again. Well, if that was my aim, I'd probably have to stop blogging.

Why all the hiding? Did I ever say that I'd be perfectly fine? Did I write that I thought a location change would cause me to become a person who'd never have a lousy feeling again? No, I did not. I sure sounded like it, however, and perhaps I'm a bit ashamed of myself for making any grand proclamations.

I had been through a number of spectacular depressions and thought I'd found some answers to keeping them at bay. I had. That doesn't nullify any of it. In fact, I do know that hiding and not telling the truth is, in fact, not one of the answers. So, I've decided to be honest.

No, everything isn't grand. I'm fighting my demons, and I do recall I wrote that fighting them was a losing battle. Accepting them is the answer.

So, today I accepted. I slept all day. My body was screaming at me to stop doing anything. I slept and slept and slept. Not the sleep of depression, but the sleep of total physical and emotional exhaustion.

Then I went out and got Chinese food. It was awful. What's going on in Park Slope, Brooklyn, that I can't get decent take-out Chinese food? I thought the Chinese food in Maine was bad (with the exception of the one great place whose name I don't know in Unity), but this is ridiculous! Do I have to go in to Manhattan for good Chinese food? So far, the answer seems to be a resounding "yes."

Writing that makes me feel better. I have no idea why. Just complaining about this one small and silly thing feels normal. This is the third lousy Chinese take-out I've gotten that's sitting in my fridge waiting to be thrown out. This is third time I've opened a paper bag full of supposedly delicious (approved by Yelp!) Chinese food only to take my first bite and wonder if I can bring myself to have a second one. And oh, it feels good to complain about something so mundane.

The truth is, I'd be abnormal if I wasn't having some kind of reaction to moving away from where I've lived for nearly 20 years, ending a long-term relationship, and planning on starting a new business venture all at the same time! Just having one of these things happen is stressful enough as it is. And here I was, totally upbeat, moving along as if I was fine, which I was. I was bound to fall down.

In fact, I did fall down. I fell on the street the first night I was here. I tripped on a broken sidewalk while wearing a new pair of clogs that have too small a heel. Right then and there, I set myself up for trouble (not that I fell on purpose - that wold be truly crazy). I fell hard, and had bruises all along the right side of my body. I laughed at the absurdity of falling down (and it was a spectacular fall indeed), and just kept on going. Add that to my normal physical pain, the loss of a comfortable place to sleep, sleeping in a strange environment, suddenly walking miles a day when before I drove to everything. . .I could go on and on. . .all I can say is this: I must be incredibly dense because I've been wondering why I'm tired and hurting.

So, this morning I woke up depressed. Very depressed. And then I thought I had made a huge mistake. I started to mourn everything and felt completely not up to any of the plans I've made, even just unpacking one box. I couldn't get the thought out of my head that I'd been a complete fool to think I could make any life changes at all. Where once was all optimism and light, there was only fear and darkness.

Living in a world composed of one or the other is not reality. Reality is that life filled with bumps and twists and big holes in the road. It is not a smooth blacktop on which one glides as if in a limo. I sure wish it was and I'd love to tell you about the great ride and the nice driver, but I can't.

I'm a deeply flawed human being with enough emotional baggage for a fleet of tracker trailers. Not falling down and falling apart would have been as likely as winning the lottery.