Neither is really helping me find a happy place. I’ve cried pretty much every day since I moved in with my husband. Not because of my husband, mind you. I’m deliriously happy to finally be with him every day. Can’t you tell by my puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks?
For awhile now, I’ve been blaming my discontent on this dilapidated old, filthy, cramped, hot, hardly adequate for the 6-8 more months of waiting until our new house is built house. It’s true that I’ve been unsettled here since we moved in, but don’t think this house is the whole story. Finding out it was infested with fleas, though, did just about lead to me having a nervous breakdown. You think I’m joking? I’m still amazed my new husband didn’t retract his vows and cut and run last Saturday.
I should really be kinder to myself. Our families are going through a heck of a lot: a marriage and blending households, moving – not just to a different house, but to a new town and schools for me and my kids, choosing flooring and light fixtures and 36” x 48” shower stalls, flea fighting… It’s no wonder I’m overwhelmed.
The hard part for me to understand is that I’ve been overwhelmed before and not been driven to the brink of depression and occasional hysteria. Exhaustion, maybe even illness I would understand, but not crying every day multiple times and feeling incapable of tackling even the smallest task. That’s not me.
Is it?
I took a sick day at work today. My sweet husband called it “a much-needed mental health day.” God bless him for having a long view and believing that we’ll enjoy a peaceful existence again eventually. Dreaming of the view from our back deck next summer helps a little, and I can sometimes escape the stress for a few minutes by reevaluating the paint colors and cabinet samples I’ve picked out for the new house, but I confess I’m worried that a new home – even a better temporary one – won’t help me find my happy place again. Even here:
That’s because I know my happy place isn’t a place at all. It’s believing - knowing - that I’m going to be OK no matter what happens to me, no matter where I am or who I’m with. I don’t seem to have that assurance anymore, and I don’t know if it’s because I turned forty this year and my hormones are out of whack, or if it’s because I gave up my bohemian lifestyle for one that, by most people’s standards, is much more stable and comfortable.
Will I be happy being stable and comfortable?
Khalil Gibran says, “Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral.” It's from his poem, ironically, "On Houses." It doesn’t seem to make sense for a newlywed bride building a dream house to be mourning for her old life, but, verily, I think I am.
Change is so hard. Be patient with and kind to yourself during the transition. <3
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