I think I’m having a fairly serious identity crisis at the moment. Everything that I talked about with Therapist 2.0 on Monday is rolling around at the back of my head. I’m just off the phone from a spectacular meltdown with Hubby because I’m questioning absolutely everything – my motivation, conscious and otherwise, my beliefs about myself, about what I’m doing with my life, where I’m going with it, where I might end up…..
The speed at which time is passing is actually frightening. My working life is all but half over, and what have I got to show for it? Never mind my working life, my actual life. I’ve been living in my safe little bubble for so long now, I can’t actually tell whether I’m genuinely not ready to come out, or I really don’t want to and so I’m scuppering myself, subconsciously or otherwise.
In an ideal world, I would be able to make writing my career. I just love it. I love the energy it gives me, the response that it gets, the doors that it’s opened. I love the advocacy work that has come my way, the opportunities that has given me. But we don’t live in an ideal world. We live in a world where bills have to be paid, debts are crushing and choices always come back to money. There’s what I want, and what we can afford. Writing doesn’t pay. Public speaking doesn’t pay, at least not for me. Work does. Hubby maintains I’m not ready to go back to work. Occupational health agrees. But is that really true? Am I not ready, or am I not willing to give up the capacity this time off has given me to focus on writing, on self care, on doing what makes me feel good?
I had a fairly epic cry about all of this a little while ago. I’m so, so confused. I was on the phone to Hubby at the time, and he told me to write this down – ‘The fact that I’m getting so upset at the thought of going back to work shows I’m not ready’. But it’s so much bigger than that. Everything that I’ve learned with Therapist 2.0, all the knowledge she’s given me, is leading me to the conclusion that I was right with where I started all those years ago. The situation that I find myself in is my own fault. I know what I need to do to keep myself well, but I’m not doing it consistently enough. There’s no chemical imbalance in my brain, other than the one that drugs have given me. I’m not sick. I’m just coming at everything arseways.
My homework for this week was to look at this whole situation from my compassionate mind. How would it respond? The problem is I’m not sure there’s space for compassion in this equation anymore. Compassion belongs in an ideal world. We live somewhere very, very different.