My life, at many points, was very complicated.
The time I told my parents that someone had been abusing me. That got complicated.
The time I jumped into marriage because I thought I had to. That got complicated.
The time I needed to leave people I loved behind. That got complicated.
And that’s just the start.
You’ll notice I don’t talk about that much on my blog, or if you talk to me personally you’ll know I just don’t go there. I’m still the same person inside; I care deeply, I feel deeply, I’m quick to hurt and I think about people who have excised me from their lives much more than I should.
So it’s not that the old me isn’t there, it’s just that I have so much more to relish in and be positive about. I’m helping two amazing kids grow up in a world that’s not all about their specific roles according to gender. I joined a shul and my older kid goes to Hebrew school. I’m taking my kids hiking on the West Coast this month. I’ve lost 100 pounds (yeah, I’m going to repeat that a couple of times). I’ve made some really cool friends. I love the weather. Any weather.
I’ve managed, I don’t know how, to compartmentalize parts of my life that are less than happy and appreciate what I do have. A roof over my head that I paid for. A car that gets me places. Kids that are healthy. A me that’s healthy. I’m far less interesting now, because I just don’t (or can’t) go there. At my ripe old age of halfway-ish to 70, I guess I’ve grown up or just exhausted the drama that I was allocated at birth. I’ve uncomplicated, and I am happy.
Except… I’m a good friend. I was a good friend. When I think about the things I’ve done, the places I’ve travelled to, to be there for someone… it hurts that I’ve been reduced to an anonymous paragraph.