Am I Really Trying?

I ask myself this question every day.  Am I really trying? Even writing that out makes me feel sick. Mainly because I don't know the answer. Maybe there isn't an answer. Or maybe there is, it's just not so clear cut, not so black and white. Or maybe it's not the answer people want to hear, the answer I fear deep down is the truth.

It's not enough to want it. I want it. I fall asleep wanting it. I wake up wanting it. And in between, I dream of it. I've even found myself wishing for something else (anything else)  to plague me if it means I don't have to fight this fight. I understand, the grass is always greener. I don't actually want another illness, nor do I take any other health problems lightly. What I mean is, I feel that if I had a different issue, one more visible and physical in nature, there would be more understanding. This wouldn't be seen as something purely self-inflicted. There would be validation. 

No it's not enough to want it. I have to be accepting of discomfort. I have to be willing to give up the lifestyle that has tricked me into a false sense of control, the straight jacket disguised as a security blanket. I have to surrender. 

And I don't know if I can do it. 

So what will it take? I'm sick of scare tactics. I know the horror stories. Hell, I've lived some of them. I've guilted myself enough, no need for any more of that. People encourage me by trying to open my eyes to reality, but my "reality" doesn't match theirs. Will it take a wake up call? Rock bottom? A lobotomy? I shudder to think about that.

Maybe I'm searching externally for the motivation and reason that can only be found within myself. I feel selfish writing that (Sidenote: I'm hardcore judging myself throughout this whole post). I also realized long ago that I've been waiting for the snap, the ah-ha moment that would spark my recovery and instantly change my mindset, the moment that will never come.  Doesn't work like that, does it? It requires a steady rewiring of the mind. Or maybe I should say, a stripping away of the brainwashing I've done to myself for years. Allowing myself to be a human. A reset.

Maybe it's not just accepting discomfort, but trying to find the comfort in the situation instead. (Side note: That makes sense in my head, but that's not saying much. Ha!) Slowly coaxing myself to a healthier mindset. Not searching for the ah-ha moment, but noticing the small  moments that are perhaps more significant than I realize at the time.

Maybe it's being realistic, knowing that I may never be fully "recovered." Like I said earlier, it's not black and white. There won't be a zap from unwell to healthy. Bing Bang Boom: Better! I wish. I'll always be in recovery. That's not pessimism. That is flexibility. That is acceptance.

And if I can be flexible and accepting, than I can keep trying. Maybe I've been surrendering this whole time, surrendering to the enemy. Maybe it's time I get up off the ground and truly stand for myself. Not a surrender, but an empowerment. This post (and this life) is full of maybes. Maybe baby. Maybe this will take a lifetime. But maybe it's worth the try.

The Quiet Game.

I loved playing games as a kid. Board games, card games, games of tag and kickball, hide-and-go-seek. I wasn't too competitive (Side note: With one exception- Red Rover. Just try to come right over, bitch, and see what happens). Sure, winning was cool, but so was the simple act of playing the game. Victory was always a sweet bonus, a pleasant surprise. I wouldn't say I was a young defeatist (Side note: I probably was), but I never expected to win. I generally went into any game with three hopes: 1) To have fun 2) To not die 3) *most important* To not look stupid.

 Anytime we were in the car, I would make up games (usually involving counting of some kind). How many American flags from my preschool to our home in OKC? How many Volkswagen Beetles?  How many water towers will we pass in the next few minutes? How many times will I see the number 8 on a sign? How many Super 8 motels? (Side note: I think I was obsessed with the number 8. I also had to find every number 8 in my alphabet soup before I would eat it. I'm just now realizing this was probably weird). This counting game required observation and a lot of attention. And I was good at it. In fact, I won every game. Want to know how I did it, my secret? I didn't tell anyone else they were playing. My competition had no idea that a game was going on. I spotted all of the water towers before they did. I counted the flags the quickest. No 8 went unseen by me. Big surprise, seeing as no one else in the car even thought to notice those things. So of course I won. (Side note: In a post all about winning, I sure am making kid Leah sound like a loser. Damn).

I still do this today. I count water towers. I count the seconds before the stoplight changes, closing my eyes and opening them in the hopes that it has blinked from red to green "magically." I count out portions of food (to a rather absurd degree sometimes). I'll walk away from the microwave and then race back to try to beat the timer. Even the people who know me best don't know this about me. I count. And I compete.

I compete with other people every day. Where are they going? What are they doing? Are they traveling? Getting married? Graduating? Working their dream job? And then there's me. I've been around and done a lot, but do I have anything to show for it? Am I "winning?"

I'm competing with people who aren't aware of the game. At least, they're unaware of mine. They're probably busy playing their own games. I know nothing of the lives of others. No one really does. We only know ourselves- what we want, how we feel. And if we aren't careful, we'll compare. We'll end up pushing ourselves to win and win and win this quiet game that is so internally loud, and we'll be competing with no one but ourselves.
Love and peace to all of you.


*Titles for this post that didn't make the cut...*
The Game We All Play (hmm, maybe I should've gone with this one?)
Ready Player One (taken)
Single-Player (sounds like dating website for gamers)
Try me, Charlie Sheen (he'd win)
Me- 0 Everyone Else- 1000000000000000000000000002 (too obvious)
Playing By Myself (sounds pathetic)
Playing With Myself (no explanation needed)
The Number 8 (sounds like a bad Rom-Com)

*bows*

The cleanse

(No, this isn't about some super-powered seaweed kale smoothie with an extra scoop of whatever pretentious  trendy food is popular this month.)

I spent an entire day cleaning out my old closet at my parents' place. Yes, it was an all day event. To give you an idea, I found a brand new VCR still in the box, my 3rd grade backpack with a broken zipper, my old ballet shoes, love notes from a boyfriend from about a decade ago, index cards from a history exam from freshman year of college...I could go on. Every time I thought I was making progress, all I had to do was look a few inches over and another pile of lordknowswhat sat there, waiting for me to pick through it. It was funny. It was exasperating. It was the perfect picture of my life these days. I'm sure you can relate, yeah?

My closet was the prime example of neglect, of letting things sit there and fester until they grew into a forest. It never seems that bad in the moment, just stick this here, put that there, I'll take care of it later etc. If you're like me, "later" can mean anything from 15 minutes to 15 years.

Man, have things festered.

I'd allowed chaos to become the norm. I'd worn blinders to keep myself from seeing the clutter around me, which enabled me to ignore it altogether. Of course, this only made it worse. I tried pouring gallons of water into an already full 12 ounce glass.

Take your time. Clean the closet, one corner at a time. Empty the glass carefully, into another forgotten glass, into a spare glass offered by a loved one, down the damn drain if need be. The clutter won't instantly vanish. The water may splash up or spill over a little. That's what trash bags and towels are for. Do not let yourself be buried alive. Do not let yourself drown.

The Survivor Elm

We lived in Oklahoma City when Timothy McVeigh bombed the Murrah Federal Building back in April of 1995. In fact, my father was a U.S. Marshal and would park in that garage every morning. Fortunately, Dad missed the bombing by mere minutes when he decided to wash his car at the last minute (Side note: If you know my dad and his love for his cars, this is actually pretty fitting, given the circumstance. This is the same man that was inches away from running into an airplane propeller one time, because he didn't want to keep his coworkers waiting. The pilot even covered his eyes out of sheer horror).

Many lives were lost that day- government workers preparing for morning meetings, children at the daycare next door, several of Dad's friends and colleagues. It was, and still is, a tragedy committed by a traitor. Despite the carnage, there were numerous survivors. Among these survivors was an enormous elm tree, the blast of the bomb bending it over backwards. Travelers come from all over the country to see this, The Survivor Elm, the physical anomaly that baffles visitors, and inspires them.

A couple of years ago, the city of OKC gifted to my dad and other government workers each a sapling from the Survivor Elm. Dad chose to plant it in the backyard, where it slowly grows. It's small, but it's strong. It's a token of such a horrible day, and it's an honor to see it whenever I'm at my parents' place.

The other day, Mom noticed the Survivor Sapling growing a fungus that needed to be treated promptly and thoroughly. If the disease goes untreated for too long, it will keep getting worse, and eventually the tree will die. I offered to take care of it once we got the treatment spray. It felt like my job to keep this tree safe, to keep it alive. It needed love and attention. It's a tedious process. Before spraying the elm, each infected leaf has to be removed, one by one, and bagged to avoid the fungus spreading (Side note: apparently it's best to burn the infected leaves, but I don't want my parents to wind up homeless, so...no burning. And also, there's not a marshmallow in sight, and that would be a complete waste of a fire, right?).

It's important to pay attention to each leaf, to examine it for black spots and wilting. No leaf can be overlooked. Even one black spot can wreak havoc on the entire plant. It takes time, patience, undivided attention. Elms are tough. I find comfort in this as I tend to the tree. If an elm can survive a bomb, maybe other things are possible.