I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my social media bio line.  I proclaim that we should all “Love the Life You Live.”  Which seems … preposterously positive and conversely,  painfully problematic.

Because, of course, in theory, we should all love the lives we are living.  Right?  I mean, that makes sense.  But … how exactly can we make sure we are loving the life we are living?  How can we break free of the rules that have been dictated and set in stone of how one achieves happiness, and what steps must be taken in order to get there?

What if  … and just bear with me for a minute … but what if what is expected of me, as a human wandering Earth, isn’t what makes me inherently joyful?  And then, what if I recognize that simple fact, but have trouble gauging my life becaue all the milestones, all the accomplishments, all the ‘you’ve been successful’ marks have been set by someone with different ideals than me?

What am I to do?  How am I to ‘Love the Life I Live’ if the rules tell me that the choices I’m going to make are the wrong ones?  Even if the rules stipulate that what I’m supposed to do, to earn the recognition of a ‘life well lived’ is in direct oppostion to what makes me happy?

It’s a conundrum.

I just took a little time out to get sweaty on my bike.  I needed a minute to try to re-frame my thoughts.  Lemme get specific rather than generic.

The rules –> go to college, get a good job (we’ll get back to good/bad etc but for now, I’m leaving it), marry a good man (because I was born with female genetalia), have children.  Learn to cook and clean and contribute to society by being a wife & mother.

Where I’m at –> I went to college.  Eh.  I got … a job that paid me money.  I married … a man, then quickly got divorced.  I did not have children.  I do not contibute to society as a wife & mother.  I got re-married.  I still didn’t have children.  I got diagnosed with an incurable auto-immune disease.  I left my job that paid me money.  My husband does 80% of the cooking.  I am lost.  Maybe.

I also turned forty and then the whole world flipped upside down.  So that’s been … interesting.

College sucked for me.  I didn’t love it, I don’t know that I learned amazing things, and the things I did learn, I don’t use.  Ever.  Then I felt pressure to go back and get *another* degree — something higher, to prove my self-worth.  I felt pressure … subliminal, haunting pressure — to prove myself with a degree.  Because that’s quantifiable.  If I am a lawyer, if I’ve earned my Masters, then I’m clearly valuable.  There are a lot of starts in my life to higher education.  And no finishes.

I got married the first time because … well, it was both complicated and super simple.  I wanted companionship, I wanted an ally (all stemming from lots of crazy family dynamic bulls*t if I’m honest) and he wanted a green card.  I think maybe he liked me for a minute.  I told myself that to make the catastrophic end of things more bearable.  But we were incredibly different people, and just because he wasn’t as abusive as the myriad of men I’d dated before him, didn’t make him the right match for me.  It just made him … less abusive than all the men I’d dated before him.  (Low self-esteem is a bitch sometimes).

When my marriage fell apart, and my resume was a giant list of waitressing jobs, that was rock bottom.  Why?  Because society told me so.  Because waitressing was bad, not respectable, not challenging, something people who weren’t smart did.  And failed marriages … that meant you’d failed at being a human.  And obviously, that was bad.

People offered encouragement, direction, tough love.  Get your life together, figure it out, find a direction.  Which meant, find a direction that’s acceptable for a person of your social standing, skin color and perceived ‘potential.’

When you hit rock bottom, the rules stop meaning anything.  You’ve withdrawn from the race, you’ve scratched at the Kentucky Derby.  Your parents (the ones who hopefully were betting on you) have lost a chunk of change.  They have a dud.  (Cue guilt).  But a lot of it stops mattering.  And I guess I could have fallen into a hole of self-pitty (I did, for a minute) and complete worthlessness (ditto).  But somehow, I managed to emerge on the other side.  I managed to pick up the pieces.

It started when my Dad handed me a newspaper (yeah, I’m that old) and told me it was time I got a job.  I don’t think he cared what kind of job, but just something to get me off their couch eating potato chips with sour cream and out of my sweatpants.

When you hit rock bottom, you claw your way back up anyway you know how.  And you leave all the heavy stuff — the expectations, the guilt, the judgement —  down at the bottom because they are too heavy to keep carrying.

I clawed my way out and ended up with a nice enough job, with enough prestige and with a fancy sounding title.  I *did* marry a good man (whew!  did it!).  I did all the things, I checked all the boxes.  And after it all, after I left that job and dealt with MS (on-going) and the shape of my world changed when my mother died  … I looked around and wondered again … what am I doing?

Life is about survival, and somewhere along the way, the checklist of how to achieve survival was written, and then amended as the world changed.  But the basis remained the same.  Do the things you need to do to survive and continue the species.

I have been thinking though, that I want to change that narrative for myself because otherwise, I’m going to keep feeling as though I am failing, and I don’t think I am.

Comparison is the thief of joy.  So I want to stop comparing my track record to anyone elses.  What I ‘should’ have versus what I ‘do’ have.  I want to live in my skin and in my world feeling ease about who I am, what I believe, what I fight for, how I spend my time.  Because those things, those choices I make, bring me joy.  Not because in some race that I’m unaware of and un-privy to the standings, I’m falling behind.

I guess that’s how I Love the Life I Live.

xo, g