I am not a patient person. That has never been my strength. Waiting is boring. Waiting is quiet. Waiting is unnerving. Waiting doesn’t make me feel like I’m in control. Someone asked me if I was depressed. I don’t feel depressed. I feel IMPATIENT! I feel out of control—not in a dangerous, I’m-going-to-go-postal way, but in a what-the-hell-am-I-waiting-on way!
I’ve received LOTS of advice—Pray on it. Be Patient. Don’t rush. Take time to think. Be still.
And it all sounds great in theory, until you really actually have to do it. For someone not skilled in patience, such as myself, all the above is like torture for me. And frankly, I feel a bit out to sea without a sail, paddle, whatever! A good friend, who actually has some credentials or letters or something after their name, gave me the best advice—advice that had waded in my spirit, but it felt good to hear a licensed professional say it, and that is it’s O.K. to let the crazy out.
They said, “I’d think you were insane to feeling nothing, so it’s O.K. that you are stressed, you have reason to be. The key is channeling that stress. You’ve had some major life events in the past two years. On a stress test, you’ve had at least three major events that land on the top of the stress scale. You have to give those stresses a positive outlet, a spiritual channel that will balance what you’re experiencing. That may be church, or sitting in a park staring at a tree, but whatever that outlet is, you have to find it, prioritize it, let it out.”
Another friend always joked about keeping crazy in the box, and how most women have become masters of that—we can’t afford to do otherwise. But, there is only so much crazy that can fit into one box. Eventually it comes busting out and that is when we have our Lorena Bobbitt moments. I let it seep out every so often, but it’s a controlled leakage. But this morning it broke through of its own accord. I screamed at my child for being, well for being two, and doing what 2 year olds do, and I scared her and scared myself too.
Crazy was bubbling at the lid and popped out uncontrollably, and that is NOT good. So here’s a start to finding that spiritual outlet. I’m going to start with what I know and hold dear—truth and writing. Now, this may seem relative, but I consider myself truthful, though I don’t always share that. Here’s my biggest, and in ways my most shameful, truth: I am arrogant and ego-driven to a fault sometimes.
That statement like most things in life requires clarification.
I am not just a conceited clod who wants what she wants, but I am most certainly set in some ways that are not the most positive. Some of those ways have led me to dark places, and so as I walk back toward the light, I’m going to do as old folks used to say and tell the truth and shame the devil. Here are some perceptions I’ve held of my current situation up until an hour ago really—and I am not saying they are completely gone, but here’s to taking steps in the right direction.
I don’t miss my job. Sincerely, I do not. I DO however, miss the access it afforded me. There were glamorous perks that came with it, and a respect and “in-crowd” feeling that in the month without it, I have noticed a marked changed in. That said, my previous post about waiting comes into play, and that has caused serious faith-stepping when it comes to job opps, and some I’ve had to turn down, because it’s not what I’m supposed to be doing. This is a real gray area for me right now because practicality says I need a job, but spiritually I’m hearing not that job. Yes, it all sounds a little strange, even to me, but so does a burning bush, a sea being supernaturally parted, a man walking on water, feeding thousands of people with a few fish and five loaves of bread, and water magically being turned into wine.
The Home Life
I am a single mother, now with no job—a walking stereotype—and that is NOT something I EVER foresaw. Not to mention there is a man who says he wants to marry me, and fancies us to be in a relationship, but he is SO far from my idea of my ideal husband, I can’t even wrap my mind around the words that come out of my mouth. It’s hard to trust someone with your “forever” when you don’t trust them with right now really. I should also disclose that this man is my daughter’s father, so clearly there are things I did find attractive about him, but that too is SO far from my point of reference right now I couldn’t even indulge in the carnal pleasure if I wanted to—and I don’t want to, at least not with him anyway.
I didn’t grow up on government assistance, and have never previously needed it in my adult life. There were things I knew about it, but it just was never in my frame of reference—until now. This falls into that gray area I mentioned above, but this is what it is right now. I definitely feel some kind of way about this, and to say it has been a humbling experience to apply for help would be an understatement. Whether it’s unemployment or whatever, it all had/has the same stigma to me. Even with the current national job outlook, it’s just not a place I’d ever thought I’d be (but who does right?). The first time I went down to the office, I sat in the parking lot and cried when I saw all of those people. I drove around, refused to get out and go “in there,” and left. With parenthood comes much responsibility though, so you do what you have to do, and you realize that it really is OK, and that this too will pass. Hopefully sooner rather than later.
The BIG Move
Home is where the heart is, and my home is packing up and moving out. I haven’t really acknowledged what that means for me. I’m not in denial, but it is SO real right now, that I tear up every time I think about it. Chicago is my home. Always has been. When things were stressing me out down here, I’d run home. I’d hope on a plane, jump in the car, pack my baby up and head up North. That has/will change. Home is not there in the same way anymore. Yes, the structure that I have known my entire 33 years is still present, and will still be ours, but it won’t be home base anymore. It’ll be different. I am sad about that, more than I have said out loud before now. No more Christmas in the Chi. No more Thanksgivings in the Andes candy kitchen. No more Elephant Man in the attic or squirrels in the walls. No more kissing boys behind the porch, or making blanket tents over the old white chairs (and kissing boys under there—wow, I was a busy little lady). No more basement Sweet 16 parties, or blue room. My entire life—save the last couple of years has been defined by my childhood home, the only home I’ve ever known really. Even when I bought my own house, that was still home. It’s a major adjustment to shift that thinking, and my heart breaks to think of that no longer being mommy and daddy’s mailing address.
So there you have it. And now that I’ve written it all down and (if you’re actually reading this) posted it, you have my crazy summed up in a few paragraphs. This is not meant to be a pity post though, because after my impromptu counseling session and after seeing it all written down for the world to see, I’m feeling less crazy. I feel completely exposed, but nakedness is good right?
I suppose now I should share some pearls of wisdom about how it’s all going to work out, but that is not the place I’m at in this moment. In my spirit I don’t (and never have) doubted that to be true, but if there is anything that this journey has shown me thus far it is that the process is SO necessary, and it is not always pretty. Honesty rarely is, but it is liberating.
And that liberation leaves me free to wait, and so I am…