Where I Am Now

When I was a teenager, I wrote two yearly inventories--one on New Year's Eve and one on my birthday. Since it was my birthday yesterday, I will continue this new blog with where I am right now. If I can figure out where I am. It changes daily.

As always, I am writing this for myself. If you happened about this blog accidentally or thought it would be vastly entertaining, it's not too late to stop reading. If, like me, you think that overthinking is a worthy pursuit, even when it's about someone else, then, by all means, read on!

I am 63 years of age. I don't feel 63. That seems old to me and I don't feel old. I feel about 55, whatever that is supposed to feel like. Some people my age seem like my mother, whom I loved, but she was well, old. Most of my friends are younger than I am and those who are older seem like big sisters to me. I am a youngest child and I have embraced that role with a passion, so that may be why I feel younger than I am. It's possible that I have assigned value to being younger, which is probably not good. It's also possible that my role as youngest child has caused me to be less mature than I should be when it comes to wanting people to take care of me and love me. I have mixed feelings about progressing beyond that. Childhood was lovely. I have, by the way, loved and taken care of many people, especially my children and grandchildren, so I am not one-sided about care and love.

I am fairly healthy. I have multiple sclerosis, so I am not exactly a perfect picture of health, but I feel healthy. Most days. If I get enough sleep. And it's not hot outside. I walked a 5K a few weeks ago and hiked for a couple of hours last week. My MS affects me mentally and emotionally more than in regards to mobility, but I can still write a blog and do crossword puzzles. I don't want to talk about my emotional issues. Maybe later. I take a few medications and have fatigue most days that I can only compare to first trimester of pregnancy. I have recently lost almost 30 pounds and between that and retirement, I'm sure my health is on an upswing right now.

I was a teacher. I loved it. I started teaching when I was 15 as an aide in a Child Development Center where I continued my career after finishing a degree in Child Development and Psychology. I began my own preschool when my children were born, and after the end of a 17 year marriage, I returned to school to get my teaching certificate. I taught for 14 years--6th through 8th grade, mostly Language Arts. I retired in the middle of a year when my MS got in the way of me teaching and managing adolescent behavior effectively and it broke my heart until I slept for a week and realized I would get to see my grandkids whenever I wanted. I've adjusted to it very well.

I am single. When I was a teenager, if someone had asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would have said a wife and mother. Same answer would have been given during college and the two or three years before I actually got married. But not everything goes as it should. Or maybe things go exactly as they should. I'm still not sure. All I really know is that I had a very unhappy marriage. No one knew. I loved being a mother, I loved teaching preschool, I loved working in my church. When I realized how unhealthy my marriage was and had always been, was when my life got messy. The divorce was 22 years ago and I'm still trying to resolve it. Weird thing is that I still want to be a wife. Go figure. It will be awhile; I'm still not ready. Lots of fear.

My identity as a mother and grandmother is firm. It is the most important work I have done and I do it to the best of my ability. Parenting is difficult, especially as your children become adults. I have influence, but no control. Grandparenting is bliss. Three of my four children are married; I truly love my son-in-law (a perfect match for my daughter), and my 2 daughters-in-law are incredible (and heck yes, they are good enough for my sons!). I have 12 grandchildren under the age of 11 and love each one individually and completely.

I am a writer. Or was. Or will be. I really don't know. I've been writing since I was in junior high--poetry, short stories, essays. Writing brought me peace and clarity. I took classes, produced a few decent works and then mostly settled into the work of teaching preschool and parenting. When I turned 40, I decided to write for children. I had read hundreds of children's books and thought I could join the ranks of successful authors. I wish I could resurrect that confidence. At any rate, I formed a writing group with 4 amazing women and decided I would write five books in five years, and the last one would be worthy of publication. Two and a half years in, the marriage I was still trying to save imploded. A year later I was diagnosed with MS. My oldest son started drinking and using drugs and another year later, my mother died. My children and I were extremely close to my mom and I wonder to this day how we got through it. I went back to school to obtain my teaching certificate and began a phase I call survival. I still wrote some. I have a collection of therapeutic poetry, I won a couple of essay contests, I even went to a writer's retreat where my writing was received with compliments and encouragement. I had an article published in an education journal that still gets read once in a while. I started a blog and wrote in my journal some, but the dream of writing for children died.

I don't consider myself ambitious. My definition of success has always been happiness and I am happy. (Yeah, yeah, I know, life isn't perfect, and I struggle, but those emotional issues will be in a later blog.) I am optimistic and faithful about almost everything and my life is full. Unfortunately, I want to live many, many more years and I believe in growth and progression, so I am reevaluating my life and to be honest, I have areas where growth is badly needed. I applaud change in others, but dislike it in my own life. It is hard and I don't always have energy. It can be painful and I don't always have the confidence I'd like. It seems like when I finally look in the mirror and like myself, a voice in the back of my mind gives me a number of reasons why I shouldn't.

The purpose of this blog is to find clarity and reason to my life and silence the voice that says it's too late to dream. Wish me luck.

Telling My Story Begins

Considering the difficulty I have writing on my first blog, it seems a bit of a stretch to start a second one.  On the other hand, I often have several journals going at once.  A travel journal, a journal for quotes, a regular life journal, a journal to record every piece of food that enters my mouth, a poetry journal or two.  Of course, I rarely write in those either.  My grandmother left yearly diaries, very accessible and easy to read.  My mother left nothing on purpose, although I have a record book of bills paid and I once found a diary of sorts of a diet she was on. She'd be mortified. When I die, not that I'm planning on it, my children may or may not choose to open everything that looks like a journal just for fun.  There will be many.  I start and stop.

There is a black journal, completely filled, that I started in 1977.  It goes for about 10 years, with fewer entries every year. It has tragic elements. I hope I'm dead before they read that one. It holds the most truth.  Some of those entries comprise a memoir I'm writing that may never be read, but needs to be written nevertheless. Perhaps this blog will be part of that memoir--the parts that I think are important that I won't mind if someone reads.  According to the plaque my daughter gave me, my story matters. I personally think everyone's story matters.  

My other blog (somethingsmattermorethanothers.blogspot.com) is a collection of essays. This one will be a collection of my story--my beautifully messy complicated story.