I started writing this post in the bathtub. I typed the intro with my phone clasped dangerously over the water, questioning how legit Apple’s claims of waterproofing really are.
This past weekend was an exceptionally good one and it could not have come at a better time. I couldn’t have planned it better myself… if I may say so myself… because I did plan it myself.
This weekend was an emergency dose of much-needed self-care and I am so grateful I decided to take it.
As I painfully detailed in my moving blog, I was off my routine and therefore my rocker after the move. Take a girl who hates change, change everything, hide her socks, flip her life upside down and remove her routine and holy shit life gets hard.
Unsurprisingly, things got better after I got back into my routine and started writing again.
That blog post where I held myself accountable for how I'd abandoned my routine was a major shift in the right direction. After calling myself out in that way, and just writing the post, I started shifting towards the right direction. My Peleton was finally fixed and I was able to start spinning again. I stopped stuffing down my feelings so much and started feeling them instead of stress eating them. I checked in with my sponsor and got honest about my feelings. I kept writing. I leaned into the Third Step Prayer of my recovery program, which I also happen to have hanging above my desk at work.
I keep the Third Step Prayer above my desk at work so I have a constant reminder of the fact that it's God's will, not mine.
But life is life and it didn’t magically get easier just because I got on my Peleton and started accepting life on life’s terms. There were still plenty of AFGEs in store for me this past month and wow did I have to learn and grow through them in classic alcoholic fashion: the hard way.
One of the biggest things I failed to do over the course of the past few weeks was to take care of myself in real and meaningful ways. I wasn’t taking a break on the weekends to reconnect with me. Instead I threw myself into trying to help with the house construction, spackling, painting and one weekend even blow drying spackle in an effort to be the best girlfriend/homeowner possible.
It was the actual worst.
Call me a princess (I’ve called myself much worse, don’t worry) but doing house work does not bring me joy. In fact, I absolutely fucking hate it. A “fixer upper,” was never my idea of home and as Blake conceded after a stage five meltdown of mine last week “this isn’t what you signed up for.”
Poor Blake. My meltdowns have been abundant lately. Since we moved I’ve been reduced to sobbing tears once a week by life. Mostly by house stuff, but when it rains it pours and I have not been bringing my umbrella. Instead, I’ve been standing in the rain crying, grateful that an outside observer wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between my teardrops and the raindrops cascading down my face.
Last week, in the middle of a meltdown I made entirely about him, Blake stopped and showed me the beautiful compassion that demonstrates his love on a regular basis.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Of course I’m not okay! I’m sharing a bathroom with you and your brother, living in a house where we can’t turn the heat on and the other day you told me to fucking tip-toe in my very own house.
In the moment I chose rage. I zeroed in on a mistaken remark he’d made earlier in the week, refusing to drop it despite the exhaustive amount of conversations we’d had about it and the rant of text messages I’d sent him with “suggested,” reading on why it was unacceptable to tell women to be quieter.
No, I was not okay.
After calming down and honestly considering Blake's question I curled up close to him and told him the truth.
“I just feel sad. Overwhelmed and exhausted. I’m burnt out.”
It was amazing, how just admitting that to the man I loved was such a behemoth task. And it was like magic, because as soon as I admitted it out loud, it didn’t feel so scary anymore.
I booked this trip the next day and explained its importance to Blake.
“I just need a break,” I told him. I was finally willing to admit it.
To her credit, my unbelievably talented therapist has been trying for weeks to get me to give myself a break. Before the move, when the realities of occupying a house under construction began to surface, it was Nancy who suggested that I take a weekend for myself and get a hotel room. Of course, I ignored this advice and instead continued to show up at her office each week forlorn. Until this weekend.
Doing my therapy appointment over the phone as I continued to lounge in my hotel provided bathrobe, I gave Nancy her props.
“I can’t believe I didn’t listen to you sooner,” I admitted.
When I returned to work after the weekend my co-worker commented on how refreshed I look. I think that the new under eye patches I used as part of one of my eight million baths had something to do with it, but the reality is, this weekend was the rejuvenation, the time and the space I had desperately been needing. It was soul nurturing and as I’ve already said, just what the doctor ordered.
Now, I’m not going to pretend that one weekend away has solved all my problems.
When I checked out I returned home to the reality of our house in progress, with a crew of strangers in my bedroom replacing our old, leaky windows so we can finally turn the heat on. After dropping my bags off I had planned to go take shelter at Jax’s house, where is Dad is generous enough to give me solace every time I ask. As I went to retreat out the front door, I noticed the door knob that had fallen off into my hand last Thursday morning was now just gone entirely. I took the back door out, weaving in-between the ladders holding up the crew of workers installing those aforementioned windows.
Did I expect to return home to a miraculously completed house? No. But damn would that have been nice! That being said, having taken a step back, I feel far more prepared to move forward with our little project. I feel refreshed and better prepared for what’s to come. Whatever that might be. Bring it on.
See it wasn’t just the physical rest that helped me this past weekend, it was also that long-needed mental health break I needed to get my thinking back on track.
Over the weekend, I got myself a manicure and decided to enhance my “me” time by listening to episode of Glennon Doyle’s We Can Do Hard Things podcast. My dear friend and fellow sober sister (seriously, what kind of luck is it that my best friend from college also ended up getting sober?!), recommended the episode on writing to me a few weeks ago.
Meghan, who once single-handedly kept me alive when I came down with malaria and typhoid in India (a story for another time…), knows me like the back of her own hand. So I knew I was in for a good podcast episode with her recommendation. That being said, I was not prepared for the intense emotional connection I would have with this episode.
Seriously. I was sitting there trying to play it cool while the nice manicurist meticulously painted my French tips, fighting the urge to throw my arms up in praise and yell “HELL YES,” to pretty much everything said in that episode.
If you haven’t listened to the podcast at all, OMG go do it. All of it. It takes all of my self control not to write an entire blog post worshipping Glennon Doyle, her sister Amanda and her wife Abby Wambach after each and every one of their episodes.
The pod is beautiful, raw, honest and funny. You’ll laugh, cry and be inspired by literally everything. You'll feel like these amazing women are reaching through to give you a hug, pat you on the back and fix your life all at once. Even that description doesn't do the greatness of We Can Do Hard Things justice, but you get the idea.
For my writer friends, I HIGHLY recommend the one I just listened to if you want to feel SEEN. It’s called “Writing and Art: When does your real self get to breathe and be seen?”
One of the things that really stood out to me was a line that came at the very end of the amazing, just as Abby, Sister and Glennon were signing off. Glennon closes by saying,
“We love you all. Find a place this week to let your real self breathe. It’s hard but we can do hard things.”
Cue me crying as my poor manicurist tries to implore me to stop taking my hands out of the dryer to wipe tears off my face.
This past weekend was an opportunity for me to let my real self breathe. And after desperately gulping up the air all weekend, I had an important epiphany: my real self needs to breathe more in my everyday life.
My real self needs to breathe. Always.
I’ve got to make a conscious effort to ensure that I’m feeding that truest, most beautiful self of mine plenty of oxygen.
This weekend shouldn’t have felt like such a gigantic fresh of breath air for me, but it did because of how little I’ve been letting my real self breathe in my daily life. With the move and the AFGEs, the loss of routine and the eventual return to it, I lost myself completely.
This weekend, as I flung open the windows of our suite and let in the sunlight, I think it literally kickstarted my healthy brain, allowing it to come back to life again.
I felt joy, happiness and gratitude for the first time in a long time.
I felt like myself again, finally. Suddenly waking up to workout wasn’t just a chore, it was a privilege. I saw Blake in a whole new light. I read, I breathed and I found myself again.
Most importantly, my self-love returned.
I’m back. And I’m so glad to have me.