on being humbled.

i'm sick.

i hate being sick. 

i'm trying to be better about using the word hate, only inserting it when absolutely appropriate. 

it's appropriate here.

no one likes being sick, but when you have issues relinquishing control it's worse. as day one of being sick turns into day five you find yourself cursing, in your head of course, the elevator that takes too long, or the person who needs something shipped to new york five minutes before you're walking out the door, or the headache that refuses to leave your right temple, or the job you don't get. you curse all of these things because you cannot control them. you didn't bring them upon yourself and you cannot make them go away.

it's humbling. life is humbling, sometimes in ten different ways all at once.

it’s humbling to find yourself at age twenty-eight taking a temp job found by one of the ten different recruiters you use. your regular office is closed for the holidays and the thought of not working for close to two weeks makes you so anxious you want to scream.

sometimes you do. 

you hate that at twenty-eight you have to take temp jobs. you hate that you sometimes have to use your lunch hour for job interviews. you hate that you've filled out the same set of forms dozens of times. you hate that you find yourself crying on the train after these interviews, especially the ones you know won't lead to anything. you hate that you haven't written and published as much as you thought you would by now. you hate that you don't know how to take it easy on yourself.

"by now," those are dangerous and loaded words. 

you hate that things seem so easy for other people. you hate that things are this hard. you hate that no matter how much you try to prove yourself things seem to stay this hard. being angry sucks you of energy and hope. but hope never fully leaves. it's stubborn like that. 

the path you took to twenty-eight is not the same as anybody else's. it took you a long time, a painfully long time, to make the first step to take care of yourself, to do anything for yourself that didn't involve food, to free yourself of all of the things that weighed you down.

you had to crawl there. some days that still feels like your only movement. 

you start the temp assignment. the holidays come. you get sick. 

it's humbling to find yourself throwing up in the garbage can at a big, beautiful desk of a big, important company downtown. and again the next day in the bathroom only because you made it there in time. it's humbling to wash your face, sit back down, and research “stomach flu vs. food poisoning."

it’s humbling to be writhing in pain next to the man you love. because someone gave it to both of you or you gave it to him or he gave it to you. to let the other person see you like that, to feel safe enough to let him see you like that. 

it’s humbling to be able to eat nothing more than a handful of goldfish crackers and ginger ale for two days. 

it’s healing, to be slowed down, even when forced, to do nothing but go to work and go home and sleep, nothing else. to take time, real time.

i've been wanting to write about so many things. 

about having this blog for one year. about how much has changed since i started it. how i didn't think i'd still be where i am. and how i'm reminding myself that in doing everything i can i am doing everything i can. and the days i feel like i'm not doing enough i pray. i pray a lot.

i wanted to write about how wonderful my birthday was and how lucky i am. how my mom took me to dinner at gio's and we both ordered prosciutto paninis and split a piece of cheesecake. how we sat there and laughed for over an hour while listening to louis armstrong sing about christmas. how ben sent pale pink and purple flowers to work, flowers that looked and smelled amazing, how his card made me cry at dinner. how good the stuffed shells and tiramisu and white wine we shared tasted, all of it. i wanted to write about the love i felt with every card and e-mail and text message i read. how my grandma's voice mail singing to me almost made me cry at my desk. how she's done it every year since i can remember and how desperately i'll miss them when they stop.

i wanted to write about how beautiful my christmas was. sharing donuts with eva in the parking lot before church, singing joy to the world, watching this lovely little girl open her presents, how it felt to sit on ben's aunt's couch and watch everyone in that living room, how welcome i felt. and how good the cheesecake was. the drive back to his house, staring at the full moon and saying a prayer, taking a picture of this moment in my mind to always remember.

i have hope. so many good things have come this year. i say thank you everyday for my blessings, and there are many. but i need to re-charge, take a breath, and get a new start, a new year. i finally know what it feels like to want and need. universe, i'm ready. please.

this is my prayer.