As I listen to my mother in law snoring, I think about where I am. Where I've been. And, where I'm meant to go. I sit legs outstretched typing this story on my phone while sitting on a cold bathroom floor in a rundown hotel in state line.
Escapism has always been my modus operandi to quell the anxiety sitting on the edges of my brain. I want to be happy, free and joyful, but the last couple of days have taught me that the old joke, the one where I escape my life through partying, is not so fun or funny anymore.
I'm tired. I'm 45 and overweight but I'm working on that. I want to look good and feel good and I'm realizing that a healthy lifestyle is not just about calories, but about living clean.
Last nite, I yearned for my dogs and cuddling with my husband in my warm bed at home and wondered silently, what is so wrong with my life that I'm trying to escape from? Nothing is the answer. My life is good. It's just that self destructive bent in me that needs to see how low the bottom of self despair can be.
On the outside, I am a happy person. I need to get there on the inside. I need to realize that this life is all I have and I need to grasp it with both hands and shake it into being.
And then maybe, just maybe, I can see that there was no joke to begin with. And there is nothing to run from. Only to.