I wonder sometimes if I’m too greedy, like maybe I want too much or am too ambitious. I reread all of my happy posts – the ones where I’m on top of the world and in love with life – and they remind me that I very frequently am indeed happy. But then I reach a state of general malaise, and when I wonder where it came from and how to combat it, all I can think of is Relax a bit, then keep on keepin’ on. I give myself time to unwind and feel every part of the yuck, but I don’t dwell on it.
This non-dwelling is a new development for me. It used to be, I’d sit and ponder and generally over-analyze myself into depression, then I’d act out in any number of physically- and emotionally-unhealthy ways. The yuck would have eaten away at me until I had more holes than a slice of Swiss cheese, at which point I’d find redemption in the kind arms of some hottie with as many equally-complicated problems as myself, bury my issues in a cave of philosophy, and tell myself that everything was okay. That this sort of strangeness only added to my creative persona. That none of the true literary geniuses were happy and uncomplicated anyway. That normal is overrated and healthy is subjective.
It was all such convenient bullshit.
The thing is, I kind of believe it.
I’m not proud to admit it, and I see where there are holes in my logic, but I can’t help but think it’s true: The greatest minds are always attached to tortured souls – not your regular tortured soul, but a truly demented, ridiculously complicated, amazingly dark tortured soul. And on days like today, when I’m stuck in a room, sleeping off my terrible flu-like symptoms, writing out lists whenever I have enough strength to hold a pen, and being wracked by uncontrollable coughing fits, I can’t help but sink back into my old way of thinking and wonder if I’ve wasted all of my potential for artistic genius. Could it be that I traded in The Life for Motherhood?
I look at my terribly boring existence – with a guy who drives me crazy and loves me unconditionally; a beautiful son who is a pleasure to raise; friends and family who are loyal, supportive, and wonderful; writing that’s going smoothly and providing money in the bank – and I can’t help but long for all of the complications. Not complications like Where is the next paycheck coming from? and Why don’t my parents love me? but complications like… well, now that I think of it, I’m not sure what kind of complications I want. I just know that this doesn’t feel like enough. I just know that something is missing. I just know that I crave some big change. Because obviously moving to the other side of the world wasn’t enough of a change.
Times like this, I think about trading Rob in for another model; quitting nursing school and going back to domming, full time; emptying the accounts, slinging Riley onto my back and starting over again. But then, I think of what I’d do, and I draw a blank until I crash back into my old self. What would I do? All the stuff I used to do, I guess.
Only, I could never really be that girl again. I’ve seen too much, grown too much, been too much to too many people. I can’t just squander this opportunity to be something bigger and better than just some artistic genius. I guess I just have to believe it first, that there is something bigger and better than being an awesome writer. That this life that I’ve made for myself is what I really want, what I really crave. That it’s not just a Plan B. That it’s not just me, working with what I’ve got.
Because sometimes, when I think of how easy it all is – about how I hardly have to lift a finger to achieve some kind of coveted awesome – I can’t help but think I must be missing something. Am I unwittingly making some awful mistake? Am I tragically doing something really, really wrong? Surely, life isn’t supposed to be this grand. Surely, I’m not made for this kind of Happy.