Who Am I?
It was a sunny and mild day in June. I had just finished a very relaxing and rejuvenative time at my favorite spa, Cleansing Concepts. I felt clean inside and out. My mind was as clear as the summer sky above.
I had just gotten out of my Lyft car and was walking towards the train station. Suddenly I was jolted by the reality that I was not living my authentic self. What does that even mean though? It’s as if someone tapped me on the shoulder and whispered loudly in my ear “you are living someone else’s life”. I looked around because it seemed so real but there was no one close enough to touch me. I considered for a moment the life I was living. I was in a job that was anything but fulfilling. I had all these dreams and goals that seem to be just that… dreams and goals.
Six months later…
But what now?
Now I spend my days in and out of a fog. Because I’m still living someone else’s life. I look with a lingering pang of envy, when I see others traveling or attending an event they seem to enjoy. And I’m not an envious person.
What’s worse, I’ve recently been falling deeper and deeper into depression. Depression so deep that it physically hurts. Though I have a lot of unresolved business swirling around in my head, my heart, my soul, I live a relatively blessed life. So why the depression? Why the nonstop melancholy that seem to overtake an otherwise sunny day?
I believe it’s because at every turn, I’m reminded of the “what ifs” and the “if onlys” that live among the brightly colored post it notes on my wall. I truly believe that I’ve been ignoring my true voice; the urge in my heart to make a move and begin to live, to be. Consequently, hopelessness threatens to overtake the shadow of actions I still take to move the needle forward but theses small steps are not enough. Only massive action will determine if I can break through the wall of dark emotions that threaten to overcome my innate desire to thrive.
Standing in my bedroom looking over the half a dozen or so extra large post it notes on my wall I wondered what was the point.
I had written out my goals for 2019 two of which I can say with certainty I have reached. I looked at the pictures of the cottage by the lake I’ve dreamed of having for the last eight years; I can picture myself with my Accounting degree as I stared at the enlarged picture of the graduation cap with 2019 crossed out and replaced with 2020. I mourn the loss prematurely. But why do I think I can achieve any of these goals, I ask myself.
I wonder if I will ever get the opportunity to wake up in the morning, drink my coffee, and move on to work on my to do list, instead of someone else’s. Still, I never want to go back to the time when I fretted in bed on Sunday nights, unable to sleep because I dreaded Monday morning. Not because I didn’t want to go to work but because I dreaded the phone calls from the bill collector or the knock on the door from the landlord or worse the sheriff.
So I wait for the opportune time. Meanwhile my milk of dreams dry up like scum on the burner of procrastination. Hence the vicious cycle of hope and depression…joy and sorrow at the missed opportunities..delight and satisfaction when encouraged or praised.
It’s my job to encourage others. No? I think so. But when I do, can I take my own advice to live my story and be my best authentic self?
Can. I. Be. Me?
