Downtime is the devil
Are you one of the moms who got sick over the holidays - exactly 4 minutes after you completed all the requirements of Christmas? Like your body was just waiting for the all-clear to let go and collapse? A friend fell prey to whatever bug is making the rounds. People told her to “enjoy the downtime” but instead she felt depression clawing at her. Downtime is not something all of us have the capacity to enjoy.
I’m not sick but I am feeling ho-hum as I await my 582nd menses and sip steaming dandelion tea out of my aesthetic glass pitcher pretended Los Angeles is not burning just 30 miles north of me.
I’m a professional at the “giving yourself compassion when luteal” thing but I’m still cursing myself, for not being in a celebratory mood. I'm supposed to be happy. Yesterday, I handed in the first draft of my entire book (working title: Parenting a Spicy One) to my publisher. The 110,000-word baby is out of my hands for a good six weeks while my editor makes sense of it. I thought it would feel like a great weight had been lifted. But instead, the tunnel vision of the last year has rescinded and suddenly I see my life for what it is. Mundane. Messy. Direction-less.
Over the last eight months, I let a lot of things slide. I kept saying to myself and others (with an indignant debutant accent) “I am writing a book! I’ll deal with that later”. I’ll teach my boy to make home-cooked meals later. I’ll reach out to that beloved friend later. I'll return my mother's call later. I’ll patiently listen to my husband’s golf stories later. Some real Scarlett O’Hara shit. But unfortunately later has arrived.
I have accomplished my dream so why do I feel sad instead of ecstatic? Some of it is sympathy pains for people I care about being displaced from their homes due to the wildfires. But most of it is due to growing up ADHD. The identity that we Neurodiverse people take on is often based on negative feedback heaped upon us growing up. I’ve been told on many occasions that “I don’t finish what I start”. And I believed it. I’ve been holding my breath for eight months expecting to give up. Ready to disappoint my publisher and family and be forced to give the money back.
I’ve summited a mountain, only to find Grief awaiting me with a pair of spiked nunchucks. Grief is commandeering my milestone, to let me know my inner child has complaints. She has been falsely accused her whole life of being a quitter. I am not a quitter. I finish everything I actually care about.
I’ve felt this emptiness before. This let down after a long-awaited goal. Everything is supposed to be different on the other side. But your old life is still there waiting for you to make the family’s medical appointments and call the gardener about the broken sprinkler.
It reminds me of the week before I accepted Christ as my personal savior. I was standing on the upper balcony of Bel Air Presbyterian Church (the spiritual home to Samuel Jackson, Leonardo DiCaprio, and me). I was watching a tall man in the front. He spread his arms wide, blocking the view of multiple people as he rocked back and forth to the music. His worship was a performative lurching spectacle. I was jealous of it. I wanted that. And I said to God who I wasn’t sure existed, “If I accept you into my heart, I better be different afterwards. I better feel some of what he’s feeling”. Spoiler alert, I did and I didn’t.
I’m chalking up some of this melancholy to the fact that my daughter left two days ago to return to college. I love having her around. We get each other. Even when she’s nasty and telling me to “Lock in” when I’m distracted, she is my person. And now she is gone. The Pacific Palisades downtown is also gone. My book-writing is gone. My son is about to be gone as he awaits college decisions.
I’m going to let myself be sad, even though it feels mundane, messy, and directionless. Picture me listening to my Permission To Be Sad playlist, staying off the 'gram, and trying to be patient with this gloomy version of me. She deserves airtime as much as that goofy lighthearted version does.
I promise to be more jaunty and silly next week. I’ll be galavanting around Costa Rica (because my husband is an incredible planner who knew I’d need a boost after my deadline). It’s almost impossible to be a sour puss in the jungle but then again if anyone can spoil a trip, it’s the Spicy One.
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Rooting for you,
Mary