I’m a 38 year old woman who still feels like I’m 12, just waiting for someone to tell me that I’m not “doing life right.” Ever felt like that? Ever felt like an imposter in your own life? Cause man, I am there. Right. Now.
20 years ago I graduated high school and started that following fall at the University of Colorado at Boulder. I was majoring in psychology because….well, people interested me, and I never bothered having a meeting with a guidance counselor to help me figure out what I really wanted to do in life. I mean, come on, what 18 year old really knows what they want to do with their life? (That’s why I’m obsessed with this new millennial thing called a “gap-year” but I digress). So I ended up at a state college and with a major because one of my very closest friends had said to me, about a year prior, that all our friends didn’t really believe I would end up going to college. That I didn’t seem to have any drive. So I applied to some very highfalutin universities and all the state colleges as well, didn’t get into any of the colleges I really wanted to attend, and ended up 45 minutes away from my family. I finished that fucking degree, in four years, thank you very much and then when older adults asked what was next I said, “graduate school of course!” Mostly because all through my four years of undergraduate school I heard about how terrible a psychology degree was and how I better have a back up plan because no one earns any money with a psych degree.
So I set about applying to the University of Arizona for a Master’s in Counseling. See, I had met the most amazing girl in a math class my sophomore year of college and we realized we were the best of friends. She ended up moving back to Tucson because she was homesick, or out-of-state tuition was too much or something, I don’t really remember, it was like 18 years ago. Anyway, I helped her move back to Tucson and fell head over heels in love with the desert. I had never seen anything so beautiful and breathtaking. And hot. I mean, really fucking hot. But it’s a dry heat, right?
Anyway, I didn’t get accepted into the Master’s program at U of A because I was applying to a program I had no business applying to. I hadn’t really thought any of this through. I didn’t have a job, I wasn’t going to be attending school, and all I had was a promise of a place to stay once I got to Tucson. Oh and did I mention I had just started dating a guy I was madly in love with from high school? I had recently been dumped by my first love and had spent the summer between junior and senior year of college basically sleeping around and getting as wasted as possible so as to not feel any of my feelings. Then, in walked my high school crush and we started dating. I told him right off the bat that we didn’t have long for a relationship because I was headed to Tucson once I graduated. I told him point blank that I didn’t care what his plans were or how strong our relationship was, I was moving with or with out him. And that’s honestly the last time I made a decision for myself. I was 21 years old.
Since then, I’ve been a preschool teacher, a job that landed in my lap thanks to that amazing best friend from Tucson who I moved there to be with. Then I started graduate school at a for-profit school and was horribly mislead about how much it was all going to cost. Through school (for a Master’s in Counseling) I met a wonderful woman who encouraged me to apply for a job with the State of Arizona to become a child protection case manager. I got the job, and I can honestly say I’m not sure why, but they must have been desperate for case workers at the time. I married that crush from high school about 3 years after we first started dating. And then he got an amazing job that would force us to move to North Carolina. I was 15 weeks pregnant and had only owned my first home for 10 months and was 12 credits shy of my Master’s. But there we were, packing our home up and moving from one side of the country to the other. It’s not that my husband hadn’t asked me about the decision, but it ultimately wasn’t up to me. I had bought our first house but only because my husband’s credit was shit and his income was amazing compared to mine. I was the opposite: excellent credit and shit salary. So we went where his job took us. I felt so alone when we first moved. I didn’t have a job and I’m such an introvert that joining any mommy and me classes felt like a terrible idea.
The one thing I have always loved doing though is writing. I have been a writer from the very beginning. I have journals filled with my thoughts and stories only partially finished. I never went to school to become a writer because, to be completely honest, my father was a big believer in me becoming a doctor. That’s right, I chose my major and then graduate direction based on what my father wanted. He wanted me to be a doctor so badly that I could see in his face the disappointment that I had not fulfilled any of that dream for him. So I kept my writing for myself.
Cut to present day. I have been a stay-at-home mom for the past almost 12 years. I haven’t held a job in as many years and am, for the most part, unemployable. I have three boys, who I love dearly and am thankful for the fact that I get to be as present as possible for their day-to-day lives. Two of my boys are disabled and I do get paid to be their caretaker which has brought me some sense of purpose. I received my Certified Nurse Assistant license in order to care for my youngest who has the most significant issues. But it doesn’t feel real. It doesn’t feel purposeful. And I know how terrible that probably seems, not being fulfilled by being a stay-at-home mom and having a paid position to help take care of my boys. But that’s where I am.
Then came a crisis in my marriage. Yes we had been dealing with family health issues for the past five years, but all of a sudden, my husband and I were more like roommates than partners. We stopped talking about anything other than the children. We were, to be as cliche as possible, two ships passing in the night. He turned to another woman for support. I turned to some friends for support and our marriage continued to disintegrate. Until my husband asked us to get help. So we started therapy and a bunch of other shit came out during therapy, which is always the case, and I suddenly realized that I felt so inconsequential in my own life.
I have been in therapy and self-help hell, as I like to call it, for the last two solid years. I have stumbled across some of the most amazing women writers and trailblazers. I recently found the Queen, Ms. Glennon Doyle herself, and read her book “Untamed.” Then I started following her on IG and she said the most amazing thing. She said that someone had asked her how to become a writer. She said that if you wake up everyday and feel like you need to write, then you’re a writer. She said that if you know other writers and envy their work and their ambition, then you’re a writer. Those words were enough for me to realize that I have always been a writer. Whether anyone reads my words or not doesn’t matter. I just need to get them out and onto paper. I just need to know that I have a voice and that voice matters.
So I reached out to a good friend who is also a blogger (and you should really check out her site because she is AMAZING!!! http://asweetpotatopie.com). She helped me set up this tiny little blog that is boring but it’s a place where I can write and share my thoughts. Plus, instead of just thinking it in my head, I can now actually say I am a published writer. I wrote my first blog the first day I set up my site and then had the most frightening and terrible vulnerability hang-over I’ve ever had. I felt paralyzed. I can’t possibly be a writer. I don’t really have anything to say. My life isn’t extraordinary in any way and I haven’t had any purpose in my life for like 20 years so….yeah, who cares about me or what I have to say. But what I also realized is this: I care about me. I care about what I think and feel. I used to be an individual who had something to say and had interesting thoughts. I may have lost my way but I’m going to push through and keep writing and publishing. Maybe not every day. But at least once a week. That’s my promise to myself and now that I’m putting it out into the universe, I plan on honoring that promise. Just like I promised myself I would go to college and finish, even if it was to prove all my friends wrong…