I want to start living my life again.
Yesterday, I deep-cleaned my house; I hired someone to scrub my shower and thoroughly wipe down my kitchen counter tops as I finally emptied out my fridge. I feel like a new woman. I also washed my sheets, vacuumed my floors and re-organized my vanity set. What a day. Afterwards, I finally completed an art project that I’ve been meaning to do FOR MONTHS, and I’m planning on heading to Walgreens today to print out photos from my family vacation to Lebanon.
Self-care is a REAL thing people.
I’m trying to take it day by day. I can do this, and so can you.
I went to a coffee shop yesterday for the first time in 7 months, and I got a latte. I’m revisiting all the things I used to love doing, and I’m remembering the beloved activities I unknowingly sacrificed. For the past year and a half, I’ve been consumed with pleasing another person and somehow convinced myself that his happiness superseded my own. The worst part is that I didn’t even realize I was doing it. I was so caught up in the labyrinth of our complex love and overpowering passion that I disregarded my own needs in an effort to keep the relationship resembling a semblance of happiness.
I don’t know when I realized it exactly, but at some point, I came to the conclusion that I was the only one putting in any effort at all. And that is no way to live your life. Trust me, I tried.
I tried until I found myself constantly sobbing, alone, in my bedroom, racking my brain trying to figure what went wrong. What always goes wrong? After all, everything was fine! I was too afraid to reach out to any friends or family members because I didn’t want to hear what they had to say. I simply disagreed with them because they don’t know him the way I do. They simply don’t understand his innate nature the way I do. The core of him that keeps me coming back for more.
I know his heart, his aspirations and his humor. I know what makes him laugh, what makes him sad and what makes him stare off into space pensively. I know the childish look of utter excitement he gets when menial things fall into place. I know that he says, “beep beep,” instead of, “excuse me,” when he needs me to move. I know the affection he seeks and the loneliness he feels when he thinks of his deceased father or his widowed mother. I know the ache he feels when he skypes with his nieces and nephews, wishing for nothing more than to be with them. I know his generosity and how he would spend infinite amounts of money on me if I truly wanted something and he thought it was good for me. I know the butterfly feeling that takes over my being when he sneaks up behind me while I’m cooking to grab my waist seeking attention and attempting to distract me from the task at hand. I know his heart, and the potential he has to be the most AMAZING man. I love him unconditionally, and I don’t think that will ever change.
I didn’t know where this post was heading when I started. I meant to write about self-care and it circled back to him. It’s a daily struggle to force myself to think of myself rather than him. It’s become second-nature to place his needs above my own. To the point where I couldn’t even remember what I used to do before he came into my life.
I miss him. I miss him so much. I want to care for him, and I like thinking of him. It’s like a drug addiction. The highs take me into a feeling of absolute ecstasy, into a sort of incredible dreamland, while the lows drag me deep down into the earth wishing for nothing but to be buried beneath my grief. It’s ripping me apart.
Maybe I’m not destined for a love this passionate. Maybe I need to take it easy and find someone milder, or maybe I just need to be alone for a while, so I can do things like clip my presently disgusting cuticles and smooth out my jagged nails.
I think I’m going to get my nails done. (I think I’ll even get a bright color rather than my usual nude!) See, I’m taking care of myself! That’s living.