And this…

I have a lot of stuff rumbling around in my head, so if you’re here, be warned: My mind is a crazy place. I often share too much, but in my family of origin no one talked about anything unpleasant. Everyone pretended everything was fine. You know how effed up fine is, right? Well, then people did drugs and killed themselves and manifested that bad stuff they didn’t talk about in worse ways. So…I talk about stuff. Awkward, painful, personal stuff. Really, I write about it because I can barely speak a coherent sentence.

That brings me to a point I’ve been ruminating on for oh, um, a few days. I realize that in sharing this a lot of you may think that I need mental help. True story: I just read two books about people who are far less crazy than I am spending time in mental institutions. Given that knowledge, I’m pretty sure on any given day, I would be a perfect candidate for commitment, but I digress. The main reason I’m sharing my neurosis is that I think (or hope) others suffer this malady and don’t want to tell anyone. Therefore, I’m going to tell you how crazy I am so you can feel less crazy. Ready? Here we go.

Whenever I have a conversation with someone, I spend a lot of time after analyzing (or criticizing mercilessly) everything I said. It sounds a lot like this: “Wow, that was so stupid. Why did you say that? Why did you talk so much when you should have been listening? What on earth made you tell that story? Really? Why would you divulge THAT in a five minute exchange of pleasantries? You’re an idiot.”

I feel as if I should keep a stack of cards in my purse for such occasions when I have to interact further than, “Hi, how are you?” with people. Then, rather than trip over my tongue and then spend the next week beating myself up over all the things I said or didn’t say or should have said differently, I could hand each person a card wherein they would find my sentiments expressed in thoughtful and genuine, if unimpressive, prose.

Would that be weird? Because I really think I’m going to go with that.

My next point has very little to do with the first point, except to further solidify my kook status. I do not like to be touched when I am sad. In fact, I feel violated when people touch me when I’m sad. I don’t want to be hugged, cuddled, coddled, or patted sympathetically. Normally, I’m a big fan of physical affection, so this is difficult for some people (my husband) to understand.

When I am sad, I go to a different place, by myself, wrap up in the awful yet awfully familiar feelings until I process them. But it is my place, and I don’t take guests there. I will talk to you until my voice expires about my feelings when I’m ready, but please don’t touch me. And if I tell you that I’m okay, just accept that; I’ll tell you how I really am when I’m ready. Now this makes me think of my non-touching friends and how I try to be mindful of their personal space but still invade it sometimes because I love them so much and want to hug them. I’m sorry. And it reminds me of so many times I’ve tried to take my friends deeper rather than just letting them pretend they were okay. It’s a fine line, and I have terrible balance. I’m sorry.

And then this: On Sunday, I got to see my daughter for about 6 hours, and then I had to say goodbye to her again. Last time for two weeks, this time for a month. Yes, these are the opportunities of a lifetime. Yes, she is so blessed. Yes, we are amazingly proud of her. Yes, yes, yes. Except what some people don’t get is this: It feels just as bad to say goodbye to your grown kid as it does to drop your baby off at day care.

It doesn’t get easier. Your kid doesn’t stop being your kid because she grows up and goes to college. You don’t wake up one day and no longer worry about what he’s eating, how she is sleeping, if he is safe, if she is scared. It still rips your heart out when your 20-year-old is homesick as when your toddler cries and reaches for you. When she is sad, I ache. I don’t imagine that is ever going to change.

Now that this is all out there, I would like to apologize if I said anything stupid to you, hugged you when you didn’t want to be touched, revealed inappropriately personal information during an impersonal conversation or pushed you to tell me that you aren’t really okay when you just wanted to pretend you’re okay. I am a work in progress. For those of you who love me anyway, I am outrageously and eternally grateful.

Then What?

The first few days of my social media fast, I got a lot accomplished, but now as with many things, I’ve come to a place of: NEEEXXXXXTTTT! Just yesterday, I invented a fake syndrome and promptly diagnosed Chloe. While her next few months are filled with exciting study and research trips abroad, then there’s next semester and then next year, and then she graduates and…Then What?

After discovering this disorder, diagnosing Chloe and then listening to Brad, who has been in his own waiting room of sorts, I realized that I had a relatively mild case as well.

My goal in giving up social media was to focus the extra time on my family, writing, reading, praying, and that has all been successful. However, since Brad and Peyton still use social media, after Lily goes to bed, my brain is on F, and I can’t bring myself to do one more productive thing, they are still plugged in. Now, I watch TED Talks and Orange is the New Black* on Netflix.

In the past, I would have gotten on Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter. I would have commented on some adorable babies, prayed for all the people with prayer requests, encouraged friends who were feeling down, liked pictures of salads, sushi, smoothies, and sunsets, Amen’ed a couple witty musings, and gone to bed.

That brought this alarming realization: The solitude I craved when too many people pulled pieces of me in too many different directions is really lonely. I am not designed to be by myself on an island (unless it’s a warm beautiful one, I could chill there for awhile), writing and reading and making my brain ache. I’m meant to interact with and encourage people. And…guilt: I basically walked away from my mission field by giving up social media.

Ughhhhhhhhhhhhh.

So, I miss you guys. A lot. I could walk away from this fast, but I’m too stubborn to quit before the 40 days is over. I have an issue with finishing things, often muddling through mind-numbingly boring books, yawning and complaining through wretched movies, and torturing myself to varying degrees in the name of not quitting. I haven’t come up with a name for this disorder yet, but I will. I’m gonna have to write my own makeshift DSM to keep track of my newly minted psychoses. The ironic other side of that coin is that my word for 2014 is: Persevere. Turns out, just as I can’t quit the dumb stuff; I can’t finish the important things. Go figure!

Stay classy, San Diego. I’ll see you in 17 days.

*If you are unfamiliar with OITNB, it’s kind of like the old HBO series Oz but with women. It’s about women in prison and has graphic language and sexuality. If that makes you squeamish, it’s not the show for you.