These days I feel confounded.
I’ve been feeling kind of adrift coming out of the whirlwind of the tumor and surgery. It’s an aftermath of sorts. It’s not over, but it’s also not so much at the forefront that I have to or should live completely in it.
I find myself Googling things like, “Emotions after illness,” just for the sake of feeling like what I’m feeling could be normal. I don’t feel normal. I don’t feel what I expected.
I was wise to pull out of the things I did when I did. I was. But now I don’t know how to re-engage and the landscape of my life looks different. Friends have moved and things have changed and pieces in me have shifted and I don’t know quite how to walk anymore. Every step feels tentative.
I’ve tried to stem my discontent with resolutions about getting my life in order and myself back together: I will get on top of my home. I will eat right and exercise and lose weight. I will spend intentional time with my children teaching them academics and things of the spirit every single day. So far my results have been: A messier house, an extra ten pounds, and my kids running amok more often than they should. I’m still somehow exhausted.
I feel soul bruised and disengaged and not sure how to jump back into anything. Things that are incredibly worthy causes that I used to love being part of just don’t move me like they used to. I don’t fit where I used to. I don’t know where I’ll fit moving forward. I don’t know what feels right or what I could do or where I could be that really ‘sings true’ anymore.
I’ve been so frustrated that I can’t find the story in the journey of the last year. What exactly did I learn? Why don’t I have that ‘serious illness perspective’ of seeing gifts in everything and not taking anything for granted? Yet, I have words in me floating around and wanting to be cemented onto paper or screen for the first time in a long time. Some of them aren’t about what I expect them to be about. Some of them are disjointed and random. But words have been bubbling out and my fingers have wanted to play with them again in ways that I have missed.
In the end it may just be another grand resolution and I may fall flat on my face here too. But maybe, just maybe, I’ll sink into words like a soft, worn pair of jeans. Maybe, just maybe even if I don’t write about “the tumor” stuff I’ll find a measure of feeling here or remember or even discover a lost or unknown piece of myself.
Maybe I’ll find my way again.