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Dating Depression
Sometimes I’ll find myself just sitting and staring into space, often at inanimate objects, wondering how I got to this point in life, a mere few months away from 36, single with nary a prospect in sight. And perhaps more importantly, damaged beyond repair. A high 97% of my friends have found love and happiness (some with a little help from yours truly) – and yet, here I am, more alone than ever before, gaslighting myself at every possible moment, telling myself that there is something truly wrong with me that I am the last one standing, so to speak. And I do often believe that. How a hopeless romantic such as myself could have gotten it so wrong in life and love is just beyond my comprehension.
It’s been a rough 18+ months. Maybe longer than that, but who’s counting. And “rough” is probably a mild understatement – a kind choice of words. There are events, emotions, feelings, and moments that have transpired that will likely never see the light of day on this blog, maybe not even in my impending memoir. There is no good way to describe hitting absolute rock bottom after (what turned out to be temporary) love and happiness was snatched away – no appropriate means by which to describe how it feels to know you were screwed over so badly by a self-absorbed sociopath (is that redundant?) and as a result, you have now lost all hope for the future. And there are certainly no words to convey the effort it takes to try to move on and put the pieces of your life back together again, only to be met by cement wall after cement wall. In theory (in an ideal world), the hell would have, in fact, ended after The Tragedy called everything off. But no. Dating since we split has been a layer of Dante’s Inferno I never even thought possible, not at this late juncture in life: rejection, more rejection, ghosting, gaslighting, orbiting, breadcrumbing, borderline “assaulty” situations – sometimes a truly lovely combination of the aforementioned…
In early February, I went on a Bumble date so terrible, it put me into a spiral relapse that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy (well, okay, I don’t know if I stand by that statement, considering those who bullied me in high school, but it really was pretty close to being that bad…). I spent the better part of an hour and change trying to “correctly” answer the questions being fired at me as we traversed an incredibly muddy and quite frankly unsafe park in McLean: “Wait, where do you live? Why do you live in your dad’s house? Why haven’t you found a new job yet? Why don’t you just live in Germany?” (And some other questions about my “lack” of international travel – no, I’m sorry, I haven’t made it to South America yet. I didn’t realize that was a prerequisite for a relationship). My God, the list goes on and on – and I have tried in vain to block out the INVASIVE questions asked of me while on a date, some of which would be what you might expect while standing trial, sure, but not on a date. Meanwhile also trying not to twist an ankle on the slick terrain he insisted we traverse, wondering why the hell I had moved back to Northern Stressville to begin with (yes, the name has changed since the inception of this blog) and its completely vapid, one-dimensional, self-promoting, self-absorbed, materialistic assholes. I wish I could say that I righted myself (and maybe joined a convent – or that more recent dates haven’t been equally as horrific). Granted, I deleted Bumble shortly thereafter (understandably), but of course he beat me to it (are you surprised?) and unmatched (!) me in the parking lot, before I even had a chance to try to navigate myself out of the slush, in more ways than one. Sadly, Bumble didn’t have a corner on the market – and subsequent forays into other dating apps (namely Hinge) were just as bleak, frustrating, and shockingly terrible. And half the time I wonder why I continue to put myself through this: insanity is, after all, doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting different results.
By May, I had actually met a guy who seemed semi-decent (seemed is the operative word), amidst a river of red flags I chose to ignore. I was bumping up against a major (hopefully life-changing) surgery, but one that didn’t exactly garner the support of every single family member, an important detail to note. As the big day approached, aforementioned Red Flag Man was becoming increasingly less supportive and more callous and flippant. On the day before “knives up”, he had the audacity to text me and ask if I was “excited for the drive [up to Maryland] with my dad.” Well, yes, I would normally be far more “excited” to be sedated and cut open, were it not for someone telling me I was going to bleed to death in the process… But that aside, asking your maybe would-be girlfriend if she was “excited” for a surgery – oof, that is just in such poor taste. I honestly feel bad for him that he lacks the spatial awareness to think it’s even appropriate to ask such a question. Needless to say, I was very much fed up with his lack of empathy by that point – and after my very salty (but justified) response, we mutually ghosted each other. But then, in the days that followed after the surgery, it dawned on me just how alone I was. (Namely, not a single person sent me flowers – friend, work, or otherwise). Were it not for my 70-year-old dad (who, of course, literally went on a run to get me flowers from my favorite grocery store the morning after I was sewn up), I would have been “SOL”: I wouldn’t have had anyone to take care of me or help out with the house, Basil, or frankly, anything. That’s a very jarring realization when you’re nearing 40 and coming to terms with the fact that you don’t really have anyone in this time zone (or, well, anywhere) that you can count on. Oof.
And so, as I struggle to make sense of everything I’ve outlined above and all that I’ve endured these past however-many months (and years), I think what it boils down to is this: our society is on an extreme moral decline. We are all so very focused on ourselves. Especially in Northern Stressville, where it’s all about me-me-me. (So don’t ask me how anyone manages to fall in love and get married – that’s another big mystery that will have to wait for another day, another post. How do white cishet men stop thinking about themselves long enough to buy an engagement ring and get on one knee?! Come back next week for more hot takes…) Gone are the days of looking out for each other. The qualities mentioned above, that my dear dad possesses, aren’t taught anymore or passed down – that mentality is dying with his generation (and honestly, he’s a rare breed to begin with). Friendships are so incredibly surface-level compared to what they used to be. We can’t count on the people we used to depend upon – offers of help are hollow and meaningless. “Let me know if you need anything!” means absolutely nothing. And then with those who have settled down, you watch them outgrow you and the single life, as they buy houses and revel in the fact that they won the numbers game. And speaking of games, I never did watch the “Hunger Games” movies, but I know the concept all too well – and I feel like I’m living in a similar “survival of the fittest” and “I might die at any moment” world now more than ever. So what do we do? Well, for one thing, avoid scheduling more surgeries than necessary, keep your head down, maybe train your cat to help out around the house, be grateful if you hit the familial jackpot like I did, and for the love of all that is good: stay off the dating apps.
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The Bad Luck Boy
“You never know what worse luck your bad luck has saved you from.”
He had been lucky his whole life: his entire family lived within several miles of him (multiple sets of grandparents and countless cousins, in addition to his parents and sisters – all less than 20 minutes away); he never had to work too hard for anything; his relationships (while short and failed) came easily; he had job after job always lined up; and everything was handed to him. (Sound familiar? It’s the cishet white man’s American Dream). He certainly never could have known that one day, he would completely destroy someone’s life; that he would set off such a chain reaction, he would be considered a “bad luck boy”. But then again, he probably wouldn’t have cared either.
In early 2023, he had just returned from a little sabbatical in Florida, where we suppose he was trying to “find himself”. Allegedly, he had moved there for a (now) ex-girlfriend, who cheated on him, but we’ll never know for sure. Why? Because this boy had a tendency to lie – but there was no way we could have known this in the beginning. He was charming, romantic, thoughtful – all the things that had been missing for so long; all characteristics that are far too rare these days. Another important detail to note? He was an improv comedian. So he was very, very skilled at making things up as he went along.
He met her on a Monday. It was the day after a big marathon for her, once during which she hadn’t felt well, but she still pushed through to the end. Because that’s what she used to do. Before she met him and he ruined her life. Back when she still had goals, dreams, hope, and knew how to stand on her own two feet. They went on their first date at one of the only restaurants open on a Monday night in their neck of the woods. He taught her some improv games and she laughed. He was so different from the guys she was used to: so confident, charismatic, and honestly hilarious. Conversations with him were effortless and comfortable. She thought he was the missing piece of the puzzle, finally.
They fell in love quickly – it didn’t take long at all for the woman to fall head over heels for him. She told him less than two months after their first date, in a cemetery (one of their favorite spots to pretend to “hunt” for ghosts), that she was falling for him. He felt the same (or so he said). The woman had never been happier. She was tired of watching all of her friends find love and happiness, while she was left behind, wondering when her turn would come. Their relationship was easy: they meshed well and rarely fought. They danced in the kitchen to silly songs, went on cabin trips, and talked about their future. The woman did a lot for him, but she didn’t mind at all, because she had been waiting her entire life to have someone to take care of – and she really thought he was “The One”.
Then one day, less than two months before their planned elopement date, the boy finally had the “decency” to admit what he had been feeling for almost a month, what he had been talking to his “BetterHelp” therapist about, but kept from his girlfriend, that it was “too soon” to get married. Which was actually code for: he wanted to continue his improv party boy life as long as he could, ideally until age 50. (So only a few years left to go…) The boy also didn’t think he could handle her at her worst anymore: the health issues had become too cumbersome, the depression too exhausting, and quite frankly, he was just tired of “putting on a mask”. He preferred to be alone, a highly ironic statement considering the boy did improv at least six days out of the week – and performed every weekend. But he just didn’t think he was cut out for a relationship. Which makes sense considering the boy was so deeply, deeply troubled.
He watched as she broke down, utterly and completely. For two hours, she sobbed and they fought about how to move forward, on the smallest couch known to humankind (not there by the woman’s choice – a relic from her maternal grandmother). There was perhaps a small part of the boy that felt badly, but he also felt so, so free: he no longer had to get married (what luck!) and he was off the hook. Little did he know, he had just devastated this woman; decimated her heart; and set off a chain reaction for the foreseeable future, for which she would never, ever forgive him.
The boy really had the best 2024 ever: he played softball, ultimate frisbee, and golf. He traveled to California and Las Vegas. He slept soundly and deeply, with nary a care in the world. His weeks filled up with even more improv than before and he enrolled in another improv class in Philadelphia, in addition to the ones he was already taking and teaching back home. Sometimes when he drove through the city, he would think of the times he went there with the woman, but only for a moment. He didn’t have much remorse and was almost certainly a sociopath – but how could he have known that about himself? And even if he did, he wouldn’t have cared. About a month and a half after the formal break-up, he and the woman began seeing each other again. It was an absolute slam dunk for the man. She still occasionally cooked for him, even, and he knew he could always count on her. He really did have the best luck after all.
But then, in September, the woman finally started coming to her senses: she hated it in Pennsylvania, so why would she continue to stay and wait for someone who was never going to change his mind about her? Of course, she still couldn’t understand it; couldn’t wrap her head around how cruel and callous he had been. But she did know there was no point in staying.
The boy still felt no remorse when he learned the woman had been in the hospital two months later. He felt nothing at all when she told him he had ruined love for her forever; that he really had destroyed any shred of hope she had for the future. The boy couldn’t have known the other details she never shared; couldn’t have fathomed how horrible it was for her to be trying to date again, after everything she had already gone through before they had met – and before he had shattered her heart into smithereens. And he didn’t know that she felt like a shell of the person she once was. He just continued reveling in his best improv life and strutted around town thinking how he really was the luckiest man alive.
But what he couldn’t have known is: even lucky people get their turn eventually. It’s just a matter of time.
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Layers of Loss
I faced my first challenge as a newly single person the other day: how to drain the standing AC unit in my bedroom. I had relied so heavily on M to do things like that for me – and failed to ask my dad when he was in town. Sweat poured off me and frustration abounded as I tried to tilt it off my balcony – and I think I was mostly able to remedy the situation, as it’s no longer leaking – but it was one of those moments where my brain just couldn’t handle the fact that we actually have to do things on our own now. We are no longer in a relationship – and we are all alone here once again. And it will get much harder than draining an AC unit.
The past almost two months have been the most difficult time of my life. Yes, I do really mean that: more challenging than initially getting sober and any subsequent relapses – and in some ways, more devastating than 2016, when I lost my paternal grandfather (“Gpa G”) and college best friend in the span of less than three months. I say that because neither of them meant to break my heart; as hard as it was to lose them, this sort of heartbreak is far worse. The kind of devastation where you have to try to continue living without the person you thought would be around forever, while he goes about his existence with nary a care that he destroyed your life and all hope you previously had for the future. I realized the other night that the word I have yet to use to describe this situation is lovesick. I am very much lovesick these days. There are some moments where I don’t know how I am going to get through the next few tasks in the day, let alone the rest of my life, without him. And there are so many layers to this loss: he was more than just my boyfriend and my future husband, or so I thought; he represented far more than just a romantic relationship. He was everything I had been yearning for – the person who could always cheer me up, who matched my sense of humor, who was always there for me. I had no doubts at all – why would I have? I blindly and faithfully put all of my eggs into his basket, thinking that he was the person I had been waiting my whole life to meet, that he would complete me, make my life easier, and enhance my existence. And he did: until he didn’t. In the aftermath of our break-up, he has shown his true colors and I wish that was enough for me to move on – but it simply isn’t.
Having placed so much emphasis on getting a fresh start when I left Northern Virginia, I really wanted just that: a chance to have a clean slate, somewhere devoid of any memories from my 20s and my active addiction. A chance to be all that I could be, to forge new friendships, get involved in the community, and yes, I suppose find love at some point. I wanted a change of scenery and a chance to start all over again. I wasn’t looking for M when I met him – and now I wish more than anything that we hadn’t met, because he has forever changed the trajectory of my life. And not in a good way. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined what a mistake it would be to move, that ultimately I would be in a situation far more painful than any I had back “home”. Now I am faced with what to do next: do I move back to Northern Virginia, where at least I have friends and neighbors, and potentially a better chance of re-building a future for myself, or do I stay here and hold out false hope, for however long, that my ex will want to get back together? Neither are particularly great options, but the former is a much safer bet (and better for my mental health) than wasting away while I wait for someone that once loved me to figure out what he really wants in life. I shouldn’t have to be someone’s option or “I guesssss so” – I should be their first choice.
When we were sitting in our final couples counseling session, the worst “therapist” (who licenses these people?) in the state of Pennsylvania had the audacity to bring up M’s family. I of course cried: I never had that kind of relationship with anyone’s family before (other than my own) and it was yet another reason I thought he was “The One”. With a close-knit family and all of the other boxes he checked, I was so sure about him, literally as of our first date. I think about his family often, as they are one of the layers of loss: without any relatives or family of my own in the state or even on this coast, it was such a comfort – truly surreal – to be brought into the fold in the way that they welcomed me. I still have remnants and reminders of them all over: a hand sanitizer spray in my car from the Christmas stocking they gifted me last year; a stuffed kitty that also doubles as a heating pad; an enormous stir-fry pan; the list goes on. They were always thinking of us and were so happy that we had found each other. How could that not have been enough for him? Everyone was rooting for us – couldn’t he see that? The kitty (whose name is Lancie) sleeps with me at night and oddly enough, she doesn’t make me sad – her presence just makes me hope that he was in fact raised right and will realize the error of his ways.
It has been a real challenge not to beat myself up over the mistakes I made or the baggage I brought to the relationship. I frequently think, “If only I hadn’t been so depressed!”, now realizing what it really means to be at absolute rock bottom with my depression and not being able to see the way forward without him. But that’s not fair – because the right person would be willing to see it through and wouldn’t give up on me in my darkest hour. We all know the famous Marilyn Monroe quote: “If you can’t handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best.” While it is a struggle to remind myself of that, it has to be true: I am worthy of someone who will ride out the hard times because they believe in me and because they love me despite my demons.
As I continue to process the extreme loneliness that has set in, coupled with the fact that we are headed into Satan’s living quarters these next few months (the worst time of year for me under any scenario), I have to accept that I’m not okay: there are more layers to this loss than I initially realized and it’s going to be a very, very long time before I feel remotely normal again. I am doing all that I can to survive and to give myself grace that this isn’t going to be a “thriving” situation for quite some time. There are still so many unanswered questions since I last wrote about this loss here – and I don’t know if I will ever get those answers from someone that turned out to be completely different than the person I fell in love with.
I will admit that I have nothing figured out at this point: the only thing I do know is that I have multiple layers of loss to work through as I attempt to navigate my way forward. I am still haunted by memories of our beautiful relationship on a daily basis; my dreams are frequently interrupted by cameo appearances from him; and some days, I wake up and the harsh reality of the heartbreak and loss hits me all over again, as though it just happened yesterday. I would never wish this on anyone, truly: no one deserves to fall in love, be deliriously happy with so much certainty that they finally found their person, and plan an entire future together, only for it to all be ripped away, one promise at a time. But the thing with layers is that you have to work through each of them separately. And because there are so many and there was so much at stake, I don’t know how long it will take or when (if) I will ever be okay again. This will always be the worst thing that could have happened as a result of moving here.
It’s difficult to end a post like this on a positive note – in fact, you’re probably thinking that yourself. I’ve had people (including my ex – eye roll, please) tell me that I’m the strongest person they know. However, I don’t know if I can handle too much more, thank you – I’d like to tap out my “strength” right here. But we all know that’s not how life works. And maybe this was a lesson in values, another reminder that I was probably meant to be born in a different, much earlier era, when people kept their promises and in a time when relationships weren’t so disposable. To quote my dad (one of the only men, besides Basil, who has never broken my heart), “You two are not the same”. Does that make me feel better, knowing that I would (and could) never do this to someone I truly love? Not really. Will this make me more guarded and make me entirely reevaluate my priorities going forward, despite the fact that I still really want to find unconditional and lasting love? Yes, absolutely. It’s still too early to try and glean any real lessons from this – but for as many layers of loss as there are, there is maybe also just a sliver of hope slightly seeping through one of those layers, that I might one day feel like myself again.
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Picking Up the Pieces
A little over a month ago, my whole world was turned upside down when what I thought was my forever relationship unexpectedly ended – and I was left on my own (quite literally) to pick up the pieces. As I navigated the initial shock, heartbreak, devastation, pain, anger, and cold panic that set in, my brain and heart did their best to catch up to the reality of what had transpired. Surely I had been through enough up until this point! A heart can only break so many times. To have thought that I had finally found my person, only for him to change his mind about us – and frankly renege on everything he initially said he wanted – has been absolutely devastating, a pain for which I do not possess the words. And layering this heartbreak on top of my existing depression has resulted in what I can only describe as living hell. But life has to go on – and I have (slowly) tried to begin picking up the pieces of my decimated heart, as I endeavor to figure out where to go from here.
Dazed and Depressed
In the “daze” that followed the break-up, time moved at a snail’s pace as I did my best to muddle through the bare minimum to keep things afloat and stay alive – and to make it to the end of the day, so that I could crawl back in bed and torture myself as I replayed every beautiful moment of our relationship in agony. I was grasping at straws, looking for anything that would make me feel better and less alone, even going to church that first weekend (and I am not normally a “church-goer”). As I lost what I can only imagine was close to half a liter of tears during the service, I had never felt emptier or more broken in my entire life than I did in that moment: it was as though M had reached into my heart cavity and ripped out the contents. And as I said to him, in what remains an unanswered message, “For what purpose?” I had lost all hope for the future, I realized – and I have thought about that constantly over the past month.
As can only be expected, May was truly miserable and will no doubt be a very triggering month for me in the years to come. I have no idea how I got through it – and mostly sober at that. Eating was next to impossible; sleep was disjointed at best, as I would constantly awaken during the night, gripped with panic when the reality of my loss would set in again; and everything, including things that normally bring me joy like running, was such a chore and truly a herculean effort. At no point have I felt even remotely normal or happy, except for when my dad was in town, on a “Heartbreak Hospital” mission as I dubbed it. But even the chance to see one of my favorite people, the only man who has never let me down or broken my heart, could only cheer me up so much. I have felt physically, emotionally, and mentally the weakest I’ve ever been (second only to October 2020 when I was navigating the discomfort of early sobriety and lingering withdrawals).
In some moments, it is impossible to focus on anything other than thinking about my ex and wishing that I could go back in time – that perhaps somehow, I could have handled myself better in our final days and saved the relationship from coming to an end. I have wished there was anything that could be said or done to change M’s mind about us or what he wants in life. I have talked to him far too many times (not “best practices” by any relationship guidebook standards, I’m sure), only to still have zero answers or clarity – and for us to be having such different “experiences” in the aftermath of the break-up fills me with unbridled rage, which I will admit is a welcome reprieve from the sadness. I don’t appreciate hearing that he’s “busier than ever”, while I’m sitting here wondering what I did to deserve even half of the pain and loneliness I’ve endured over the past decade or so. How a person could change their mind so drastically, not only in the span of a mere three months – from wanting marriage and commitment to not even wanting a relationship at all – but also over the course of just 24 hours, is beyond my literal comprehension. Whatever happened to forgiveness and second chances? Nothing has made sense and still doesn’t, as I endeavor to find the words to appropriately describe the aftermath of this decimation of my heart and the emotional rollercoaster on which I’ve been stuck. I have never been more sure of anything – and I thought that everything I had gone through prior to meeting him was all worth it to finally be with my person. I don’t understand how I could have been so wrong or missed the warning signs. I don’t know why this had to happen to me – or why we would have met to begin with, fallen madly in love, and spent the most incredible 13 months together, only for it to have ended. The questions and confusion linger in spades – and may surely drive me insane.
Relapse and Re-Recovery
As I continued grasping at straws and cobbling together things to look forward to, that might give me hope, I started attending a recovery group, in search of some comfort and reassurance, however small, that I was maybe going to be alright after my most recent (and not at all surprising) post-break-up relapse. And as a result of joining the recovery group, I am hopeful that I have made a new friend, someone in a similar situation without many friends in the area, who is also struggling with their mental health. It has taken a great deal of effort to look at those as positives: that, while I feel more alone than I have ever felt in my life, at least I summoned the courage to look for some support and to reach out for help in my time of grief and need. I have tried to be patient with myself, even though some days it feels as though I am regressing in my healing process, reminding myself just how important this relationship (and our love) was to me, and so of course it feels like my life is over. What I had built with M was incredible and quite frankly irreplaceable – and trying to accept that it’s gone feels like an impossible feat.
Losing Love
As I’ve cycled through unimaginable grief and sadness, peppered intermittently by anger and rage at what he’s putting me through, I’ve realized that this is not only painful because I lost what I had hoped was a lasting love, one where we would grow old together, but also everything else that our relationship represented. I didn’t just lose my boyfriend and one of my best friends; I also lost someone who made me feel like I was starting to build a little family here, when I had no one else. Not a day goes by where I don’t think of our bedtime routine of calling down “Good night – we love you!” to Basil, or how M just fit into our lives so perfectly. I thought for sure he was the missing piece of my puzzle. He was helpful, loving, generous, and thoughtful, until he wasn’t – and that is truly one of the hardest parts of this grieving process, realizing that he is not the same person that I fell in love with and trying to accept that not only has he changed, the circumstances have changed, too. But it wasn’t just about productivity and having someone to rely on: being silly with M made all the misery of adulthood (and this neighborhood) more bearable and knowing that I would see him at the end of the day made the monotony of work and life well worth the grind. The other day, I remembered one of my favorite quotes, that more than explains this sentiment. “They say a person needs just three things to be truly happy in this world: someone to love, something to do, and something to hope for.” (Tom Bodett) M provided both love and hope – and without it, I am left with an enormous void in my heart and in my life.
Hope for Healing?
There is nothing easy or fair about heartbreak, especially considering that I was banking on this relationship lasting forever, but perhaps, with enough passage of time, healing will finally come. In most moments, I am so overcome by my lack of hope, both for healing or frankly anything good, that it’s nearly impossible to think this will ever get easier or more manageable, or that the pain will one day fade to a numb dullness. I don’t know for certain that I will ever have hope for healing or for the future again. As I said to my ex, “This more than takes the cake” – and I mean that. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would be sitting here, typing these words, once again overcome with sadness – and never did I think that we would return to being strangers, going about our lives separately. Given the nature of what happened between us and how much emphasis I had placed on this relationship being the last one I would be in, it’s hard to imagine I will ever find a way to be happy again. My heart is exhausted – and so am I. There is a part of me that realizes I may never get the answers I so desperately seek; that any “lessons” from this relationship might never make themselves known to me, other than it being the wrong timing or a truly unfortunate set of circumstances. I may never understand why this relationship had to end or why the love was taken away from me – or how my ex could have hurt me in the ways that he did. All I can do is try to move forward with my life and give myself grace as I gingerly pick up the fragmented pieces of my heart, being careful not to hurt myself again in the process.
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Dreams Deferred
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.Or does it explode? – Langston Hughes (“Harlem”)
Long before I sat down to pen this post, I had been thinking about the fact that I’m running out of time to accomplish my goals in this life. It hasn’t been easy lately: coming out of an almost 6-week depression, with more down days than good. Battling PMDD and other chronic health issues, feeling like I live in the luteal phase. Navigating the new normal in a relationship that has since run its course – and losing all hope for ever having a love that lasts; of anyone sticking around. Trying to get my head above water across multiple areas of life, only to find myself constantly floundering and more behind than ever. Let’s face it: living in survival mode doesn’t allow for much else – and accomplishing anything beyond the bare minimum, getting through the day (ideally sober), and taking care of your insatiable cat is too much to ask. There are some days I’m amazed that I can continue my run streak and marathon training on little to no sleep, minimal energy, and almost zero motivation. But running has saved my life – and continues to – and is always worth pushing myself.
One day, while I was on the track completing a speed workout, the above work of literary genius from the esteemed Langston Hughes popped into my head: and so I asked myself, “What does happen to a dream deferred?” We all know I struggle with acceptance – sometimes it’s easier to tell ourselves that things will get better; that the pendulum will swing back in the other direction (as I hypothesized in this post); that we will get everything we want in life, if we just try hard enough. Isn’t that what we’ve been told our whole lives? But then we find out that’s not always the case – and what happens if we don’t accomplish our goals? What happens if we try multiple times to qualify for Boston, only to give up on the sub-3:30 dream? What about if we move somewhere new – and rather than it being the shiny fresh start we had hoped for, it’s rife with new types of noise pollution, relapses, the greatest heartbreak, difficulty making friends, and problems adjusting? What if we struggle for the rest of our lives to stay sober – and that memoir never gets finished or published? What if we did truly suffer in vain – and our story never helps anyone else, for the sheer fact that we couldn’t save ourself first? What if we think we finally got it right and we found unconditional love – that everything we had endured up until this point was worth it to have met our person at long last – only to be so terribly wrong? What if we have to accept the pain and unending heartache of being alone, while everyone around us settles down and has someone with whom to share their life?
We adjust and we adapt. We give ourselves some grace – and then we take time to reevaluate our priorities in life. We keep trying, sometimes crawling or taking a few steps backwards just to be able to take one step forward. We look at how far we have come – and that we’re not the person we used to be. We remember the inner strength and tenacity that allowed us to get sober in the first place, the very same determination that carries our tired legs through to the finish line; we remind ourselves that we are worthy of every single dream we have in life – and that those dreams take time, hard work, patience, and failure. We laugh at the irony of it all, knowing that everything makes for a good story with the right passage of time, and then we cry – a lot. We get angry at ourselves for the months and years we’ve wasted and we get mad for wanting “the wrong things” in life. We remember that one day, we’ll look back on all of this and realize that this, too, made us a whole lot more interesting and a lot stronger; that there is always strength in the struggle. And then we go to bed thinking that maybe those dreams haven’t dried up; there is hope for them yet.
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Correcting Course
Life is unpredictable: we can plan for months or maybe even years, banking on a goal, a dream, or an event taking place that we’ve always wanted – and then in the matter of hours (or even minutes or seconds), everything can change. We go from thinking we have it all figured out, to quickly realizing we must change our mindset, correct our course, and steer our ship in a different direction. This is a time for re-evaluating priorities, for taking a moment (or several) to ourselves, and for unlimited grace.
Most recently, I experienced a pretty significant change in plans – and with it, the expected range of emotions and the strong urgency to figure out what I did wrong and what comes next. I am someone who likes to know what to expect – but I’m finding it difficult to accept that we rarely get that luxury in life. Navigating how to move forward after a shift in the status quo is likely not easy for anyone, particularly those of us who are planners. Finding the positives is also nearly impossible: for someone who already dwells in the negative (easy to do when you are depressed 65% of the time), seeing a silver lining in such a time is – well, not possible. When you get so close to everything finally falling into place, how do you find the positive when it all changes? That is a strictly rhetorical question, as I don’t have the answer – and is certainly one of the reasons I write.
As a planner, it’s also been very challenging (and goes against my nature) to find it within myself to be flexible and agile. One thing I’m realizing about myself in these times of needing to switch gears? I tend to immediately go into survival mode. This is probably not very productive, nor is it going to allow me to successfully course correct that much faster, however staying in this mindset is safe; I can give myself a lot of grace to just do the next right thing; and honestly, it’s familiar, as I became very good at being in this mode when I was making my initial attempts at getting sober in 2019 and again in 2020. Even before that, I spent the majority of my 20s in a type of survival mode, although not one that I would ever want to return to.
So where do I go from here? I find myself asking that question in vain a lot lately. There are a number of factors that make it difficult to envision the way forward. It now feels futile to try to picture the future: to imagine that I might successfully course correct and sail my ship somewhere more stable, where the waters are calm and the horizon is bright; where my life (and my future) feels settled and secure. But this is a good lesson in the volatility of our existence: as I noted in the opening sentence, life is truly unpredictable and nothing is guaranteed, except death, traffic, bad drivers, and taxes. Perhaps one day, when I reflect back on this period of time, it will be easier to see it as part of my story and how it all fits in, rather than being so short-sighted and existing in an endless sea of negativity, feeling more cynical than ever.
Whenever I’m wrapping up a post, attempting to end with a takeaway or just a shred of positivity, I’m continually going through my “brain catalogue” of quotes that are applicable to the topic at hand. I remembered one I had seen on social media, several lifetimes ago, which I think summarizes this topic quite well: “And like all journeys, she did not end: she simply changed directions and kept going.” (R.M. Drake)
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The Change Chapter
February 14th marked the one-year anniversary of perhaps the biggest leap of faith I’ve taken: finally saying “enough!” to the complacency of my former life and embarking on a great adventure, my change chapter. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve moved in my life, so this was (and still is) a very, very big deal for someone who spent an entire decade in a complacent haze, numbing their reality with alcohol and kicking the can down the road. As expected, I have been filled with a wide range of emotions as I attempt to celebrate and acknowledge this milestone: shock and disbelief at how quickly the past 365 days fly by; a twinge of panic that I’m not “further along”, especially with regards to settling into my house and figuring out the next steps in life; a lot of guilt and internal conflict as I struggle to appreciate how far I have come; and a myriad of other feelings.
A few weeks ago, as I was brainstorming a possible title for this post, “The Change Chapter” popped into my head. Brilliant. Because that’s really what it is: a chapter of change, not only a change in geography, but in mindset; new opportunities; growth; perspective; acceptance that maybe, yes, this is not where I’m meant to be, but it is a stepping stone. Trying to see the positives and be bolstered by my personal growth is something I’m working on every day – a brain exercise, if you will.
Despite my current environmental factors, despite a major change in the status quo of my romantic relationship, despite feeling as though my stress is making me sick: I am still proud that I was brave enough to move somewhere new, not knowing a single person here. Nothing can detract from all of the fears I had to conquer to not only go through the physical motions of moving, but also starting a new life for myself, after 22 (!) years in the same area. Granted, I had an enormous amount of help and assistance from my dad, someone I consider a best friend and certainly my biggest cheerleader and supporter, but once he and my mom left after Moving Mania, I was the one who had to start the new life, all on my own.
You might remember the Andy Warhol quote, “They always say time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself.” As I was starting this post, that popped into my head – and I feel that it’s quite fitting in this context. Had I stayed in Northern Virginia, sure, I might have continued to grow and evolve as a person, but I had to make a big change (in that of my geographical location and subsequently starting a new, completely different life) in order to really continuing growing – and getting the change chapter I so desperately needed. Change is scary: and there’s certainly been a wealth of it in my life over the past 13 months! After the change in geography, I went from being single to in a serious relationship very quickly, a big change for someone who had been on their own for so long; I held two (vastly different) new jobs in the span of six months; related, I went from working remote to being back in an office for as long as I could stand (only two months); my health improved, then deteriorated; I had a lapse in judgment when it came to drinking again, briefly… There have been so many changes, it’s a wonder I haven’t suddenly become an expert in change management!
As I continue to try to figure out my life (emphasis on try), one thing I know to be true is that it will be filled with more change. “The only constant is change”, as the saying goes. The past 13 months have made me a far more humble, sometimes patient, and very resilient human being. I find that I can pivot much more easily than I used to – and that when I do have to quickly switch gears, it isn’t as painful as it used to be. Sure, it is still difficult to go with the flow as a planner and mostly Type A person, however I think that this move and chapter chapter have really allowed me to adapt in ways I never thought possible. And for that I am immensely grateful.
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While We’re Waiting
I had to hunt through my drafts for this post, the idea (and title) having first been conceptualized in 2022 (!), almost two years ago. (I guess you could say my writer’s brain is consistent, at least…) I remember when I first came up with the title, it was vastly different than what has re-inspired me to pen this post. We’re all waiting on something right now – and we have been our whole lives.
We spend much of our lives waiting: as children, we just can’t wait to be like the older kids, so we can drive, shave our legs, and go out with friends. Then, when we do become teenagers, we realize it’s not all it’s cracked up to be – and we want to be adults. And so it continues into adulthood, when we find ourselves waiting for love or our perfect person; for a better-paying job; to finally execute our life-long dreams; to be where we want to be in life. Then we might find or acquire one of those things, however we’re always searching for and waiting on the next goal, aspiration, or frankly, high to make us happy. It truly never ends.
It’s a lot of hurry up and wait. Because life is hard (nay, exhausting) – and because good things take time.
I don’t know what you are patiently (or impatiently) anticipating right now: maybe it’s one of the aforementioned milestones; likely it’s a higher salary or some other type of financial windfall. Maybe it’s a baby you’ve wanted your whole life; a proposal; a new house; or news from the doctor about a loved one’s health. It could be some or all of those things, even.
So what do we do while we’re waiting? I’m beginning to realize none of the things I am waiting on are going to make me happy. True happiness would come from inner peace and finding solitude from the literal and figurative noise; from solving (or better managing) one or more of my chronic health issues; from being able to see my family more often – but it will not come from the temporary highs I am chasing. A tangible or material item is not going to bring us true joy, despite its symbolism. Similarly, moving into a quieter neighborhood or finally escaping to the countryside will still yield its fair share of problems, likely distant neighbors who have a “healthy” gun collection.
I think what we do while we wait says much about us as a person. It is during the waiting period that we can develop strengths like resilience and patience. Patience does not come easily to everyone – if you are a patient person by nature, then I applaud you, because I surely am not! Over the past few months, I have been waiting on many things, some that weigh more heavily on me than others. Some, like mental wellness, will take the rest of my life to achieve. Others, like financial stability, are perhaps more within reach. And during the waiting period, we can also focus on what we already have. I have been making a concerted effort every single day to remind myself of all the positives; to focus on everything I have been given in life and how far I have come in my sobriety, in finding my voice and (hopefully) growing as a writer, and in other areas of life. To no longer be alone and to finally have met my person is incredible: it is a sense of relief in and of itself. And to have a loving family, a roof over my head, a chance at a fresh start, a cat that loves me in his own little aloof way: these things all bring me great joy, happiness, and a sense of comfort.
Whatever it is that you’re waiting on, I hope that you, too, are able to focus on the positives; to find it within yourself to appreciate this waiting period for all that it will teach you – but not to lose faith in whatever it is you are eagerly anticipating. As I am fond of saying, “There is strength in the struggle” – and these periods of waiting can teach us so much about ourselves and help us to refocus as we look for just the tiniest shred of patience.
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Saturated Society
I’ve been debating whether to write this post for a few weeks now. It’s going to be a controversial one, but it needs to be said – and a little louder for the folks in the back. So please get comfy while I climb onto my soapbox about our saturated society for the next several paragraphs…
We live in a society that is saturated with alcohol: our culture is, on the whole, absolutely obsessed with getting drunk. But I know I don’t have to tell you this twice; it’s fairly common knowledge. Most people want to drink at every single event, plan their weekends around alcohol (happy hour, breweries, wineries, Super
StressfulBowl Sunday, you name it), and then, I guess, deal with the consequences on Monday morning. People, I get it: I, too, was stuck in that vicious cycle for an entire decade, all told. But what do you have to show for it, when you spend your entire life seeking out opportunities to drink?I will pause to interject that of course I know individuals who are able to balance enjoying some weekend wine tastings with the rest of their lives, for example, and not let their drinking take over. But for many, especially those (like me) who are genetically predisposed to alcoholism, they are walking on very thin ice; they are playing with fire. It is incredibly problematic, troublesome, and tragic in my opinion, that our culture condones (and encourages) alcohol misuse and abuse. According to the National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism, there are 28.8 million adults, ages 18 and older, living with alcohol abuse disorder. Yikes. And the Columbia University Department of Psychiatry writes that, “Nearly one-third of Americans’ alcohol consumption puts them at risk for alcohol dependence.” I’m not great at math, but neither of those statistics are very comforting…
To attempt to play devil’s advocate, I know (from experience) that there are many reasons for turning to the bottle: it provides a brief escape from the deafening din of daily life; it is a coping mechanism for many. Also, it is incredibly difficult not to continue on a path of self-medicating with alcohol when, let’s face it, it is the easiest of the substances to find: you can procure it at just about every CVS, gas station, grocery store, Target, and other store imaginable. It is a HUGE, inescapable part of our culture, dating back to the early settlers. But it has become a terrible problem – and it continues to be. It is all the more heartbreaking, having gone through active addiction, then fighting to claw my way out of the darkest moments of my life, because I know all too well what it feels like to be consumed by this disease; this obsession. But I also know what it feels like to have my life (somewhat) together; to wake up without the shame, hangxiety, and headaches. I know that change IS possible – and I wish more than anything that other people could experience that, too. However, our society is far from healing if it remains nearly impossible to find non-alcoholic beers (and certainly wines – those are completely MIA) at local restaurants; if asking for a mocktail menu is met with a somewhat puzzled expression; if it remains an elusive concept to go to a comedy show where everyone isn’t BYOB to the max.
As someone who is now fighting tooth and nail to recover (once again) in a linear fashion, it fills me with rage that we are still very much on a fast track to destruction as a society. I hate that alcohol is so easy to come by. This means that, when I made the decision to somewhat briefly drink again during “Augtember”, I was able to get my hands on that problematic poison without anyone asking any questions whatsoever; without any difficulty at all. I am now (and have been) back in my right mind and back on the straight and narrow – and am so thankful for that – but it is completely understandable why this is now all the more upsetting, having experienced such a setback almost three full years into my sobriety. Am I blaming the stores that sell alcohol? No, not necessarily. I have free will and it was my decision to drink again. I am the one who experienced the break with reality; the “oh, screw it” moment. But the problem remains: alcohol is far too easy to obtain, both for legal adults and those that are underage. It’s also deeply ingrained in us, from a young age for many (depending on how they were raised), that it’s acceptable to drink at every meal; every occasion; every milestone. Then we go away to college and it’s game over. That should be its own separate post, as there is much to be said about the horrors of binge drinking during the collegiate years and the lasting effect that can have, when, for at least four years, that is the center of one’s existence. Naturally that sets the stage for the rest of adulthood.
This is a vast understatement, but it’s incredibly difficult to heal from active addiction to alcohol when you are surrounded by it, constantly – and I don’t just mean at the aforementioned stores. Let me start by giving you a recent example to back this up, that is truly absurd. I just went on the hunt for some new running hats – and I can’t even shop online without being assaulted by HATS (that should be a simple enough quest) that are covered in a beer motif, like this one from Sprints, their “Save Water” cap. Oh, my goodness, really? I realize they are likely trying to be cute – but give it a rest, will you? I would like to be able to do some online shopping in peace, without being reminded that beer is such an omnipresent part of the running (and marathon) scene, just once.
So, as a saturated society, where do we go from here? And how do I, personally, manage the anger of living in a country where every single social setting involves alcohol? A world in which I can’t even accomplish some Sunday shopping without coming across running paraphernalia that makes light of drinking in excess – or reminds me that there are never any fun alcohol-free options waiting for me at the finish line? How do other recovering alcoholics heal from their own trauma lived out during their active addiction? And how do we deal with the burden of having to plan ahead each time we go to a restaurant, a party, a work event, literally anywhere – knowing that we will have to potentially “explain” and defend the decision not to have an alcoholic beverage in hand? I don’t have the answer, not even close. This is not one of those posts that ends on a happy note. We have such a long way to go as a society, in educating ourselves on the horrors of alcohol abuse, of alcoholism, of the destruction that this poison causes for people, before we can even begin to think about changing. But I hope, through social media; months like “Dry January”; quit lit by incredibly talented writers who clawed their way out from the darkest depths of drinking despair, just like me; and by perhaps more loud voices from the back, that we might one day live in a society that is no longer completed saturated by the pervasive (and dangerous) presence of alcohol.
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Trigger Talk
As a recovering alcoholic, I frequently face triggering situations, some more overwhelming than others. In fact, I could probably (and maybe will) write an entire series about triggers. Perhaps you are also navigating how to deal with your former (and present) triggers – and how to cope with these anxiety-inducing circumstances without returning to the bottle or your substance of choice. I wish I was here to deliver the answer or some magical potion that would fix this for us – but what I do intend to provide is what has worked for me, in the hopes that perhaps one of these anecdotes might reach the right people and in turn, help them, too.
Over the past 3ish years and counting, I have amassed quite the collection of quotes and mantras; absorbed beautifully written quit lit by the likes of Laura McKowen and Annie Grace; run thousands of miles in my quest for peace (and some level of forgiveness of self) from my active addiction; made messes and mistakes; and put one foot in front of the other, often making it all up as I go.
One of my favorite mantras, which I believe I initially came across on Instagram, is, “Do the next right thing.” This saved me most recently, after a series of slips and the panic that comes with trying to get back on track, and has even inspired another similar concept, which is the idea of “getting over the brain hump”. What I mean by that is: when you are triggered by something – and maybe you are also seeing red with anger or rage – it is very difficult to get your mind over the hump to the other side, away from wanting to drink or use your substance of choice.
On a Saturday in early December, I was extremely PMS and dealing with my relentless PMDD + related depression – and the Noisy Neighbors were having a particularly loud day with their cabinets, doors, and of course, their dog, aka “the yap”. My boyfriend, M, had left for a social obligation and I had yet to figure out where I was going to run (I frequently go on “field trips” on the weekends to get in my long training runs and escape to the solitude of the trails). I was so overwhelmed by my depression; inability to make a decision about where to run; life; the irritation of living next to to the noisiest people on the planet; and the feeling that none of the aforementioned will ever resolve themselves, that I was naturally very triggered to drink and started having those scary thoughts of acting on it.
Miraculously, I was able to put together an “emergency plan” and eventually get my brain over the hump of feeling like I needed to drink. The first step is letting a loved one know how you’re feeling: I texted M to tell him that I was very triggered and desperately needed to get out of the house in the afternoon and/or as soon as he returned. He is extremely supportive of my recovery and naturally agreed that we needed to get away for a bit. We ended up at a creamery in the countryside (of course!) – and removing myself from (most of) the triggers was exactly what I needed. Sometimes taking yourself out of the situation is the answer. While it doesn’t necessarily fix or resolve what initially triggered you, I do find that a change of scenery can do a lot of good.
The other crucial piece of advice (what has worked for me, at least), is finding something that you can indulge in, that isn’t self-destructive and doesn’t compromise your sobriety. For me, that is ice cream – and lots of it! I am very fortunate to be in a relationship with someone who also has a sweet tooth and appreciates frozen treats as much as I do – and will drive all over the state with me to find new creameries and ice cream joints for us to enjoy together.
As we, in recovery, continue on our quest for peace from the past and endeavor to recover from our active addiction, we will always face triggering situations. That is simply a fact of life, unfortunately. But there is great pride in overcoming these triggers, in living to see another sober day; in getting over the “brain hump” and in figuring out what works in those moments of extreme panic. When we fall down or slip, there is always hope to get back on track: the person you have become in your sobriety, on your path towards healing, is still there, no matter how terrible the day was or how insurmountable the triggers were. For me, it’s about being a better version of myself and continuing to build on my sobriety success – and it’s also about using my struggle for good. Triggers are all temporary: if you can get through that which used to push you over the edge and lead you to self-medicate, you can do anything! Change is possible – and may we all continue to learn as we go and ultimately triumph over our triggers.