My conumdrum is that I am happy but not content. I have a husband who loves me, a job I love most days and three lovely dogs (no baby, but I am hopeful).
Still, something is missing. I wake up at four a.m. most mornings brimming over with anxiety, like a boiling teapot of a human whose mind won't turn off. I worry about everything I said the day before and everything to come. What am I so afraid of? What is the worst thing that could happen?
Happiness has always been an elusive concept for me. I have written about the sad fact that I am happiest in retrospect. I call it the rear view mirror effect where everything seems better looking back.
Is my anxiety a sign that I should be writing full-time?
Writing keeps my monsters at bay. On good days, writing is like channeling the spirits of the past. On bad days, it is like trying to get the last dregs of ketchup out of a stubborn bottle. Writing for me is always satisfying. Like scratching an itch that needs to be scratched. Writing keeps me sane and is much better for me than Lexapro.
The conumdrum is whether I take a risk. Should I jump off the springboard into the swimming pool of life? What if I drown although I know, I mean I fucking know, that I am a strong swimmer and have a great backstroke.
My life has not been easy and all the good things I have achieved have taken effort and sacrifice. The question is how much I am willing to give up for my voice to be heard. How much am I willing to risk of my ego, of my financial stability and of my time?
Today I make a pledge to try and think about this conumdrum at length and to challenge myself to be the best I can be. This old girl has a lot of life left in her. She just needs a jump.