So, obviously, there has to come a moment when the tides change … when all that felt it was falling into a pit begins to float back up.

I feel as though John and I have spent this year being tested ~ emotionally, physically, as individuals and as a couple.  There have been amazing ups, but there have also been devastating downs.

I’d like to turn the corner … I’d like to feel content and motivated and at peace with life again.  I think, just for a moment before things changed, I felt as though I’d taken control of my life.  I felt invested in my work, inspired by my goals and as though I was living a life I could be proud of.  I haven’t felt that way in what feels like a long time.

It’s easy to feel sad, and to sooth that sadness with excuses and actions you may otherwise eschew.  I wanted to be living a healthy life, a full life, a purpose-driven life.  But being healthy is harder, requires more effort than just being ordinary.  Eating fast food, and drinking a lot of wine.  Those things are temporary (and easy) band aids for the damage and pain beneath the surface.

The man printed an article a few days ago.  It’s still sitting on our countertop, and it has been constantly in my thoughts.  The author proposed a theory ~ that while we all want to be ‘happier’ and make choices to live a ‘happier’ life, what we should really consider is what we are willing to suffer to achieve it.

I don’t think I stated that very clearly, so I’ll try another way.  What kind of suffering are we willing to endure to create and maintain the ‘happiness’ we all strive for.  I want to be thinner and in shape ~ but I hit snooze on my alarm every morning, and every evening the couch seems vastly preferable to the gym after a long work day and an even longer commute home.  So that ‘suffering’ ~ the early arisal or the push at the end of the day ~ I have shown definitively that I’m not willing to endure that to achieve my ‘happiness.’

But I do endure the relentless commute to and from the city each day for a job I feel frustrated by and unhappy in ~ so really, I am the master of my own fate.

I know that making myself and my health a priority has to rank above my job.  I know that intellectually, but emotionally, it’s frightening.  In an economic climate such as todays, with the job market the way it is, I am afraid to lose my job (more than I am afraid to put on weight, apparently).

I do feel that these thoughts, this jigsaw puzzle I am trying to solve, is a step in the right direction.  I want to be proactive, I want to put the effort forth for the things I care about.  I just need to figure out how to do it ~ how to organize my life to meet my own needs, and thus create my own ‘happiness.’  I need to figure out how to effectively prioritize.

I’ll keep you updated as to how it goes.

I looked in the mirror the other day -close on the heels of my last blog post, and my public declaration of love for musical theatre – and I wondered, with sadness, where I’d gone.

Huge, dark circles accentuated my tired, opaque eyes. Ashen skin, dull colorless hair.  Just a walking declaration of fatigue, and life kicking my butt.   Not only life knocking me around, but succumbing to it.  I looked and felt completely beaten down, defeated and … forlorn?  I’m struggling to find precisely the right word and failing -so I will settle for ‘forlorn.’

I will obviously not deny that this has been quite a challenging year thus far.  And it doesn’t seem to be letting up very much.  I thought last year was bad … but I think this one triumphs in that department.   In the beginning I tried valiantly to be positive and upbeat – focusing on healthy eating, and living normally with MS.  Plus, I got married this year, and that was a beautiful, incredibly special day.

And then I broke my foot.

And MS started to take my life away.

And work became unbearable on so many different levels.

And suddenly, I had lost any drive or desire to find the positive, do anything or go anywhere.  Walking was challenging, seeing was challenging … everything felt like an insurmountable obstacle.  I was ready to give up.

I don’t mean this to be ‘oh woe is me’ or ‘please pity me.’  It sounds that way, and there is a part of my soul that yearns for comfort, for soft words and sympathy to make this easier – less unbearably difficult.  But another part of me – the one I got from my mother, and Jennie J, and all the tough ladies whose DNA I share – says I will not be beaten.  I will not lie down and give up.  And becoming a broken human constantly in need of fixing isn’t okay.

Many years ago I made a mistake.  I’ve been paying for it ever since, in icy cold words begrudgingly directed in my general direction, in subtle jabs at who I am, where I am from and the choices I have made.  Fifteen years hasn’t eased the apparent injustice I caused, or the color of my character in certain people’s eyes.  (Black, in case you were wondering.  Although it should have been sort of obvious).

That moment, so many years ago, when I made what felt like a fairly innocent, naive mistake, changed my life.  Not just the course of it, but the damage the aftermath did to my character, my confidence and my very being.  I started living my life trying to make up for the terrible, horrible “crimes” I committed against others.

The manner in which I reacted to the criticism of my very being has morphed over time.  I am not sure I should still be apologizing — and I certainly should NEVER have apologized for certain aspects of my actions (or more specifically, myself).  But the consequences of how it affected me continue to be far-reaching.

So how does this all tie together?

I don’t know.  I think it all came to a head about a week ago.  I got some news from my brother (now far away in Texas starting a new life), I wrote that blog post marking an important moment for me, I received another lovely email from a family member, and work nearly broke me.

When I looked in the mirror and saw that sad reflection staring back at me with emotionless eyes, I felt overwhelming sad … I didn’t know who that woman was – I didn’t recognize myself.  I was tired of feeling so terrible, so broken, so angry, so slighted, so unheard.  I was tired of the pain in my body from stress, disuse and anxiety.  I was tired of seeing myself in the mirror and not knowing myself anymore.

I’m also a little tired of apologizing.  So pardon me while I have a small, much-needed moment.

I’m an American, and I’m proud of being an American.  I’m proud of my country and the noble men and women who strived to make it a better place to live than where they were born.  It is a great, magnificent country full of people with big personalities, pride in their heritage and pride in their country.  Anyone who has only spent a day or two here, or a week long vacation, doesn’t have any idea of the greatness that still exists in this nation.  We are not Hollywood, we are not a stereotype, and we are certainly not less than any other country in the world.

I have made mistakes.  And I have let them define me for far too long.  Here’s the truth – we all make mistakes.  We all make wrong choices, say the wrong thing, pick the wrong person to marry.  Shit happens.  It happens every day, and it happens to most people, and a lot of times, it happens more than once.  Holding any person accountable for a mistake, or a misunderstanding without any real knowledge of who that person is – is absolutely ridiculous.  Especially for fifteen years.  And you can tell me I need to let it go, or tell me that it’s ‘just how it is’.  But here’s the thing – I have tried to let it go.  I’m not the one still taking shots at me – all I’ve ever done is apologize and try to be polite and the picture of contrition.  And I’m done now.  It’s eating away at my soul.

Life is effing hard.  And the people that we all choose to surround ourselves with should lift us up.  They should be the kind of people you can break down in front of, who hear you and who love you without judgement.  They should encourage you to chase your dreams, and make you laugh until your face hurts.  Those are the people worth fighting for.

Today, after overcoming my paralyzing fear of going new places (which has compounded with walking & eyesight problems) i went to the gym and I swam.  I swam for forty minutes and my arms ached and I could barely breath ~ but memories came flooding back of swim practices and high school and pushing myself even when I felt like I couldn’t go anymore.  It felt like a relief.  And in the water, my legs don’t fail me the way they do on the ground ~ and my vision (despite working out) is crystal clear.

I stood in the bathroom today, and my skin had  a little more color, and my hair was shiny at the roots, and I didn’t feel so weighed down.  Exercise is a miraculous thing.  I believe in it with as much conviction as I believe in vegetables, green juice and smoothies. I believe these things are the rungs on the wall that will help me climb out of the despair I’ve found myself in.  I am clinging to that, and the phenomenal way I felt (and out of shape, if we’re being totally honest) in the pool today.  And to the idea that I’m done apologizing for who I am.  I’m really not that bad.