Self-pity.  It’s not something I typically think I’m feeling, because I like to consider myself grateful and realistic and open.  However!  This morning, I heard those words and thought, shit!  I have been RIDDLED with self-pity.

For months.  I have this nagging tiredness which makes me feel sorry for myself.  I want to complain about people pinging me and interrupting my “me” time.  I want to whine, perpetually, about my state of the union (aka my tiredness).  I feel sorry for myself for losing our baby.  I feel sorry for myself for going through another loss.  I feel sorry for myself because it appears that is how my disease is showing up and I had no idea.

That’s the beauty of listening to other people, reading, and sitting still for me: I eventually hear things that I wouldn’t otherwise consider relevant to me.  I eventually connect with how I am actually feeling, rather than trying to outdo the thing I’m trying to avoid feeling in the first place.  I eventually stop trying to force situations, people, or places and instead acknowledge that I have not only everything that I need, but a lot more.

Eventually.  Time: things I must earn.  I must earn my connection to myself, through patience, love, tolerance, and unconditional acceptance.  That doesn’t mean I do my best and shouldn’t make amends when they’re due, but it does translate to a shit ton of grace.  It enables me to step forward into my big life, wearing shoes that often feel too big for me, and keep going.  It enables me to get knocked down but get right back up.  It enables me to be kinder, softer, gentler with myself and thus everyone else around me.  Eventually.

Eventually has become relative because if I’ve acquired anything throughout my decades in recovery, it is my rebound time to sanity and the fact that I always have choices.  So many in fact that I get to laugh when I stop taking myself so seriously and realize that no, it’s not that bad.  Yes, we have hardships and heartbreaks and things in our life we’d rather not deal with but no, my life is not that bad.  In fact, it’s pretty stellar.

I am married to the absolute love of my life.  I share my bed and my home with someone that makes me want to be better, every single day.  I have a rolodex of people I can call, text, audio, and ask for support that love me so much it hurts to think I judge them ever.  I have years of experience that allow me to be my own friend and to enjoy my own company and to choose myself over anyone else today because this same experience tells me I should.  I have money.  I have stuff.  I have God.  I have recovery.  I have stability.  I am stable.

Our miscarriage taught me a lot.   I didn’t think I was ready for another lesson in grief, but it turns out that I was.   I also didn’t know, with absolute certainty, that I wanted to be a mom.  But I can tell you, as a mother (thank you for reminding me that I AM already, not was) I was so undeniably connected to our little boy that it was exactly who I’ve meant to be all along.  I have a greater purpose than the bullshit my disease wants me to focus on: my body shape and size, my career, my tendencies to overthink, overanalyze and overdo; my relationships that I am too hard on or need to work on; my bank account; my anything.  Seriously.  And if God sees us fit to be parents, I believe that we will be.  And if that’s not the case for us, I also trust that we are already OK and that there is a bigger plan we just can’t see yet.

Our miscarriage has made me grateful.  It has yielded tremendous perspective.  It has gifted me a stronger connection to myself, my husband, and our life together.  It has connected me to my heart.  My heart, unlike my head, is what fundamentally drives me and keeps me connected.  It shows me everything I need to know, every time.  It is much softer, but it is much louder when I stand still long enough to tune in and listen.  That can be hard for me, as my head is my default and part of my native brain.  It loves to rule my world.

Ironically, I’ve had the least tired day I’ve had since I can remember.  Maybe there’s something to this shift in energy, to the heart, away from the overthinking brain.

Join me?  Open your heart.  It’s worth it.

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