Catching the cars we chase.

a study in the art of letting go and feeling a bit more thankful and a lot more overwhelmed.

Informal post y’all.

I feel overwhelmed. After looking around at the posts that have done well, the ones that have performed better...it is a nightmare not to obsess.

However:

First off, for every one of you that is reading this in your spare time. For the people that have found something to glom on to here. For the compliments I’ve received from the community, I truly have no other words to say other than: thank you so very much for giving this outlet attention and care.

To say that I am overwhelmed with gratitude is true.

But that’s only half the truth.

For those of you reading this that have met me through White Whale: it’s that time. I am, in fact, leaving. And I am mourning that fact. I feel like I grew up there. I found a voice in there, loudly—I might add. It is a bittersweet thing that I didn’t expect to happen, in the manner that it is happening. The simple truth is, however, I was hiding there.

The parts of my life that I imagined for myself are, certainly, different than I thought. I would argue that things are lining up in a way that grants me more autonomy than I thought possible. And yet, I am sad.

Or more succinctly, I am terrified. It feels like the void I have been crying into, shoving work into, yelling at, has vomited up opportunity that challenges every part of my being. Am I capable of completing these tasks?

I haven’t even driven a car in 5 years. And I now have places to go, lots of fucking places.

I have started, failed, and restarted and failed again, new routines that fit better with my focus shifting back to the things I love. While at the same time, having a steady job that allows me be flexible should I have the need.

I don’t have to push through pain anymore.

I don’t have to push what I want to a back burner.

Nor, do I have an excuse to do so.

And I have no idea how to do that. So…I’m really bad at it. It feels like I keep disappointing myself, falling into the ever-so-useful-disassociation-phase and beating myself up for not paying more attention.

It is a challenge, to say the least, to be free in the self that you are getting to know. I am organized, but I am also messy. The AuDHD of it all and the tale of the two executive dysfunctions. It’s not blame that I lay at its feet, but rather, trying to figure out how to work with its nuances rather than against them.

I’ve always loved a haunted house and I’ve often referred to myself as such. To quote Olivia Crain from The Haunting of Hill House:

“A house is like a person’s body. The walls are like bones, the pipes are veins, it needs to breathe, it needs light and flow, and it all works together to keep us safe and healthy inside.”

So, it isn’t a new idea. However, instead of the house being haunted it feels strangely empty. I feel empty. Somehow all the comfort of the hauntings of past and future worry are not gone, but they aren’t ghosts anymore. These are practical obstacles that I can see clearly. And that is good. It is more than good.

But at times, the change feels daunting. Foreign, even, like I don’t know this house at all. Boxes of things left to unpack but the air feels clearer.

The apartment we currently live in is much the same. It’s an old boarding house with a lot of history. I can feel and see what was. And instead of getting upset at the space for not being what I wanted it to be, I worked within its boundaries to make it beautiful and comfortable. Cozy.

I still yelled a lot, but…I digress.

So how do I do that for myself? Where is the comfort in this new discomfort? Changes for the better still bring a mourning period, so I’m told. I just don’t know how to learn from it, to see past it, and to accept moving forward.

Is it deservedness that I question?

Do I deserve to live this life for myself? I can’t tell. I’m not sure I’ve really deserved anything. Never really, truly, felt that I’d earned something. There’s always an excuse:

“I’ve got a job in NYC coming up, I’ll be there during April.” -says I, as I update people.

That sounds cool! That sounds dope as shit, and yet I physically can’t be excited. I’m more terrified that I can’t handle the pressure of traveling, making sure I’m housed and fed correctly, being in a new space while also having to create on a strict timeline. Getting compliments on the work here and other pieces leave me feeling…well, nothing. I keep wanting to ask:

“Are you sure?”

Regardless of how I feel, I’m still doing it. I just wish it didn’t feel so icky.

The old job is throwing me a party of sorts, an “Irish wake.” A chance for people to tell me stuff, even though I live right around the corner and would prefer to just slip out unnoticed. Considering I had been a patron well before I started working there nearly 3.5 years ago, working largely by myself, taking the place through COVID, and beyond. Now, it being beyond me. 3.5 years later and I’m a patron again, or well, soon.

You have to love the irony, though. I feel like I’m dying inside because of the giant changes, and the part of my life I’m leaving was killing me and my send off is…also dying? Even I couldn’t have seen that coming.

My grandmother would have said by now:

“Oh good Lord, you’re doing your Krist-iii-naa thing again.” Making sure to make that first part of my name crisp, for effect. And adding more injury with the elongation of the last vowels. Don’t worry though, she specializes in a tough love that makes sense to me. I need to feel more grounded. And no one is more grounded, or has grounded me more, than her. I overthink and wind myself up with worry; she basically says it’s “silly” that I do that. It’s simple, but I believe her. Not even my husband can make me believe that.

Hopefully she’ll come with me to NYC, it would be really cool to share that experience with her.

As I wrap up my thoughts here, I suppose I’ll end it with one more quote:

“Death is only the beginning.” -Evelyn (Evie) Carnahan in The Mummy

I loved that movie to death, such that, I murdered it by watching it for a full year, every Friday, before my grandmother had had enough.

I suppose that’s the takeaway: enough.

You’ve done enough.

Enough.

Enough.

Enough.

On to the next. Thanks for being here with me, my new little ghosts. This is just as much a place for you as it is for me, and we are all haunted it seems.