I Escaped the Struggle, But Now I'm Stuck in the Elevator

I feel lost and found at 41. I'm great, and not okay, while deciding how to put the past behind me for good.

In one week, I turn 41.

I feel lost and found, all in one.

I’ve been writing letters to someone I’ll probably never send. They’re cathartic if nothing else. An attempt to mend.

Most days I have rash ideas, certain to mindlessly destroy what I’ve gained.

Now my brain has room to think, to say, “no, not doing that anymore is winning.”

My entire world has been autobiographing Blockbuster stories. This new territory feels boring.

I wake up unhurried, time to snooze the alarm. Cuddle with Dora a little longer. Morning routines before we head out the door for a walk and a hike.

Open the laptop to work. Even the worse stress at work isn’t real stress anymore.

I eat a few consistent meals in the day. What a strange new thing that is.

If I need it, I’ll take a nap, but I rarely do. My health is cognizant.

Now I’m sitting in my hammock, a cool desert breeze blowing. Typing thoughts out for a world, moving at a speed I’ve left behind, to read. Deciding what I should do with the rest of my day, casually.

Dora is playing Merry-Go-Round on her sheepskin rugs scattered around the yard. Each one offering a different view. She’ll abandon them to claim a cushion on the porch as her very own. Her Highness.

I’m great, and not okay. Standing in what feels like an interim. An elevator whose door hasn’t opened and buttons are unpressed.

To my left is a desire to make all of the struggles getting to the other side mean something. And to my right, the desire to close the lid on them forever as if I’d just been transported here from another dimension.

None of the motivational promo videos are talking to me about this feeling.

Uncharted territory, I imagine it should feel scary (but oddly enough, it’s not). Just calm, quiet, boring.