Out of the rabbit hole...

Whenever I deliberately show someone new this series of posts, I re-read them to remind myself what all I've been up to. In spite of the idea that by our mid-twenties we've mostly settled down in our development, I can honestly say that the difference in who I remember being three years ago and who I feel like now is almost as much as when I was 20. (I'm 33, for those of you playing along at home.)

When you grow up with crazy, harmful people, you develop a rather specific set of survival and coping strategies. Some of these can be useful later, many of them are not. It took years after cutting off contact with my abuser to create enough safe space to look at things.  It took years beyond that and several whirlwind, swept off the feet, dare I say manic relationships to start breaking some of those inner protective shells open.  Outnumbered, I was presented with incontrovertible trends and was forced to deal with them.  I also learn better by fucking up first. I'm aware of much more of myself, and don't have to try to fix other people so I can watch how I do it and use that technique on me later.

I was throwing myself into things, driven by questions I'd not dared to even ask before. Once asked and answers, the questions seemed to lose their hold on me, and I saw that it was the wanting and wondering that was keeping me attached, not the thing itself. A few of the things I've asked for have come to pass, many  have just been tried or entertained, and I realized it sounded better in my head and I didn't need that after all.  Still, you never know if you don't try.

The hardest thing has been coming to terms with my reproductive system. We finally decided to actually take a break from thinking about it or talking about it until this spring, and then if nothing happens by the time I'm 35, we'll bag the mission.  I'm ok with the idea now. I'm not *happy* about it, but I can talk about it without going moist and dribbly and have started looking for what comes next. To say this was a hard place to get to would be an understatement. There were many months of anxiety, disappointment, anger, depression bordering on suicidal, existential despair, crying on the buses home, fear that I would never find happiness or purpose again, a few self-destructive phases where I could see myself getting farther and farther out of control but couldn't stop because I was trying to crash just for the catharsis of an external disaster (thankfully it never came to that), resignation, grudging acceptance and finally coming up with at least a plan to make another plan.

My husband climbs mountains on the outside to keep things interesting. I feel like I'm on the other side of an internal one. I haven't actually solved anything yet.  I don't have a clear direction for a non-breeding plan, but I have a few leads and I can see myself working with kids again in the future. I can visit the stink-monkeys from the failed daycare and not cry in the car because I miss them and I'm afraid that was my one chance. I can imagine the things I'd like to do without children, and joke that it's not so bad being the only one at a kids birthday party who doesn't look ragged and starved for complex sentences.
Work schedules have changed and though it's taking some adjusting, I have more meaningful time with those close to me and more time to myself to get working on those things that make me feel like I'm moving instead of treading water.
I'm still too close to burnout to give energy to those who take and never seem to get full, but I'm attracting happier, healthier people into my life. I'm trying new things and going places that are uncomfortable and discovering they're not so bad after all (like rock walls).  I'm feeling kindness and affection from unexpected places, and remembering why I do what I do in the first place.
I'm writing again, haltingly, but steadily getting some of the things in my head onto a page. I'm remembering who I am at home. I'm looking back on all the things that were important or emotional or delicate and feel not entirely unlike I do when I look back on my high school writings. I'm not embarrassed, I don't think less of myself for having those experiences, but I'm really glad that Past Me was that way and Present Me is much more comfortable with and conscious of what's going on.

I haven't plotted a destination, but I've found my feet again and I feel a little like dancing.