I’m dying. I am dying and I do not want to leave a house full of bric-a-brac and a bunch of paperwork for my family. I do not want to leave three rooms full of fabric and yarn and beads for them to try to make sense of. Or a bunch of albums and tubs and boxes full of unmarked photographs and truckload of family-flavored guilt. I want them to say good-bye, bury me, and get on with life without dragging me and all my stuff along with them for the next 30 years.
Since I know some of my readers know and care about me, let me assure you I have no specific information that I should expect to die soon. But I lost my biological father and my aunt when I was six, and my mom passed at 47. I have an unhealthy obsession with early death and have been expecting it any day for some time now.
I walked into my sewing room with my husband one day last week and he made a sound of… something. Shock, maybe. I couldn’t look at him I was so ashamed.
“I know. This room is a metaphor for my life.”
“No kidding,” he said, backing out carefully. We haven’t spoken of it since.
And this blog is the “metaphormorphosis” of my life. The symbol and means of navigating a life transformation. I made that up, of course, and it’s likely flawed but I’m going with it.
Back to the sewing room. The space is unusable. Things are piled all over the place, it would take me a full day to clear off the work spaces if I wanted to sew in there, and another day to organize any projects. Totes stacked upon totes in front of book cases and on a chair. You can’t see the top of the ironing board.
As I said, it looks a lot like my life. I don’t think I have enough time left on this earth to get it all sorted out, and sometimes I get a little panicky, afraid I’m going to leave a big old mess for someone else to clean up.
Not that panicking is the answer. Anxiety and depression are probably about 40% of the reason my life is such a shambles right now, and the resulting indecision is the biggest obstacle to me doing anything about it. They rob me of energy and focus and resolve and memory and drive. And self respect.
So, back to this mess of mine, my so-called life. It’s a disaster. I tagged this blog as a lifestyle blog, but really as kind of a joke. It should be a lifestyle-less blog. I am 49 years old and overweight and I hurt all over. I dress like a homeless person, eat like a college student, drive a car most teenagers would be ashamed of, and my credit is in the toilet. My business is failing and I will probably be bankrupt soon. I love my husband dearly, and I think he likes me well enough, but we understand each other about as well as two people on their third date rather than an old couple who’ve raised three kids and will celebrate 30 years of marriage soon.
I am the way am because personal and business choices I have made, and because of some things that were beyond my control. I accept that.
As I looked at that room and at my life, something occurred to me. Now, when I am at my lowest and really have nothing to lose, I can reinvent myself. Not thinner and sleeker and richer. But simpler, more helpful, more present, with less stuff. More time to read, a sewing room in which I can sew, projects that are finished, gifts that are delivered. A reasonable work week.
I’m going to spend the next several months transforming my retail business, if not totally winding it down. I will make that decision in the coming months. I’m definitely going to scale it back. It doesn’t make me happy, I’m not good at it, and it doesn’t fit in with my role a caregiver right now.
Metaphormorphosis. Having reached a point of ultimate vulnerability and paradoxically ultimate potential, I am going to see what I can make of myself. I will share my journey as much as I am able, and invite you to read along and join in if you wish.
Don’t mind the tears.