I'll Get There When I Get There

What happens when life forces you to slow down—but your brain never learned how?

This blog was supposed to go out yesterday.

It didn't.

There was a time when that probably would have driven me crazy. Wednesday is blog day. It's on my calendar. It's something I'm supposed to do.

But yesterday didn't care about my calendar.

And lately, neither does my body.

Sometimes we don't know where the path is taking us. We just keep going.

I'm beginning to realize that learning to slow down may be one of the hardest things I've ever had to do.

I'm beginning to realize just how much of my life has been built around the words “What's next?”

What's the next project? The next class? The next email I need to answer? The next piece of art? The next appointment? The next thing somebody needs from me?

I've always been a go, go, go person.

Before all of this happened, I rarely sat down. I was always doing something. Creating something. Teaching something. Planning something. Taking care of something—or someone.

And honestly?

I liked being that person.

That was me.

Except now I can't be that person.

At least not in the same way.

And I'm having one hell of a time figuring out who that makes me now.

IT'S NOT ME! But It Is Me Now.

I said something to my therapist yesterday that has been rattling around inside me for a while.

Before everything that happened this year, I never sat down.

Now I'm forced to.

My body simply won't do what it used to do. I get tired. I hurt. I run out of steam. There are days when I have plans and my body looks at those plans and basically says:

Yeah...no.

And I hate it.

I'm sad about it.

I'm frustrated.

I'm angry.

I'm scared.

Because while everyone can tell me that I'm still recovering, there's a question nobody can answer:

What if I never completely go back to the way I was?

That's the part that scares the hell out of me.

Because this slower person?

IT'S NOT ME!

Except...

it is me now.

And I don't even know how to act as this person.

Apparently My Brain Didn't Get the Memo

During my therapy session, my therapist asked me whether my mind ever stops.

I laughed.

Stops?

My brain has never been quiet.

Even when I go to bed, I'm thinking about what I need to do tomorrow. I'm planning projects. Remembering emails. Thinking about artwork. Classes. Appointments. Things I forgot to do. Things I need to do. Things I might want to do six months from now.

Apparently even while talking to my therapist about how overwhelmed and exhausted I am, I was telling her about the emails I needed to send and everything I needed to catch up on after our session.

She pointed it out.

Basically: See what you're doing right now?

Well, crap

.

She even wondered aloud whether ADHD could be part of the picture.

I don't know about that.

What I do know is that my brain has absolutely no idea how to sit quietly just because my body has been ordered to.

My body may be sitting in the recliner.

My brain is running laps around the house screaming:

WHAT ARE WE DOING NEXT?!

Fine. Let's Quit Everything.

Yesterday I finally told my therapist what I've been feeling on some of my worst days.

I want to go away.

I want to quit teaching.

I want everyone to leave me alone.

I don't want to answer another email. I don't want anyone needing anything from me. I don't want responsibilities or schedules or commitments.

I just want to stay in my studio, create when I feel like creating, and be me.

She looked at me and basically said:

Okay. Let's do that.

Let's quit teaching.

Let's stop communicating with everyone.

Let's stay in the studio.

Create when you want.

Don't worry about being there for anybody else.

And immediately I thought:

Well...I don't really want THAT.

Damn therapists.

I hate it when they do that.

Because suddenly I realized something.

I don't want to leave my life.

I don't want to stop teaching.

I don't want to stop connecting with people.

I don't want to stop sharing my art.

I don't want to stop being there for the people I love.

I don't actually want to disappear into my studio and shut out the world.

I'm just tired.

So incredibly, unbelievably tired.

Maybe Tired Doesn't Require a Life Decision

That realization has stayed with me.

Maybe when I'm exhausted, overwhelmed and hurting, that's not the best time to decide I should quit everything.

Maybe tired doesn't require a major life decision.

Maybe tired requires permission.

Permission to answer the email tomorrow.

Permission to say no.

Permission to change plans.

Permission to create for twenty minutes instead of five hours.

Permission to let somebody else take care of something.

Permission to put something on the calendar and then take it back off.

Permission for Wednesday's blog to come out on Thursday.

And maybe the hardest one of all:

Permission to stop putting a deadline on when I'm supposed to become “me” again.

But Who Exactly Am I Waiting For?

That's where this gets complicated.

Because I've been waiting to get back to myself.

The woman who could go all day.

The woman who could teach, create, travel, handle the business, answer the emails, make dinner and probably come up with three new ideas somewhere in between.

I keep waiting for her to come back.

But lately I've had to ask myself something I don't particularly want to ask:

What if I'm not supposed to go back?

Not because I'm giving up.

Not because I've decided this is as good as it gets.

I still have a lot of healing to do, and nobody knows what my body will eventually be capable of.

But maybe this isn't entirely about getting the old me back.

Maybe somewhere in all of this, I'm meeting a different version of myself.

And right now?

I'm not sure I like her very much.

There. I said it.

I don't like that she gets tired.

I don't like that she has limitations.

I don't like that she has to think about whether she has enough energy to do something she wouldn't have thought twice about before.

I don't like that she has to rest.

And I especially don't like that she can't control how quickly any of this changes.

But whether I like it or not...

she's still me.

I'll Get There When I Get There

I wish I could end this by telling you I've learned to embrace slowing down.

Nope.

I wish I could tell you I've found peace with all of this.

Definitely not.

I wish I could tell you I've mastered the art of sitting quietly, listening to my body and being completely present in the moment.

Please.

Let's not get carried away.

My brain is probably making tomorrow's to-do list while I'm typing this.

But maybe that's not the lesson yet.

Maybe I don't need to know who the new me is.

Maybe I don't need to know how much of the old me will come back.

Maybe I don't need to decide today what my life will look like six months from now.

Maybe I can stop racing myself toward some imaginary finish line where I'll finally be able to announce:

There. I'm me again.

Because maybe I've been me this whole time.

Sad me.

Angry me.

Frustrated me.

Scared me.

Exhausted me.

Creative me.

Stubborn me.

Still-dreaming me.

Still-laughing me.

Still-making-art me.

Still-wanting-to-teach me.

Still-trying-to-figure-this-damn-thing-out me.

All of them are me.

So I don't know exactly where I'm going.

I don't know who I'll be when I get there.

And for someone whose brain has spent a lifetime asking “What's next?”, not knowing is incredibly uncomfortable.

But I'm trying to learn something I've never been particularly good at:

There doesn't always have to be a next thing.

And there doesn't have to be a deadline for becoming whoever I'm becoming.

I'll get there when I get there.

Not because I've given up.

Not because I've stopped caring.

And certainly not because I've suddenly learned how to sit still.

I'm simply trying to stop racing myself to wherever “there” is.

And maybe, for today...

that's enough.

—Deb