Thirty Something is the NEW Twenty Something

I often find the words that I can not say I write. I find it amusing I will put it all out for the world to see but yet I can barely be this honest with people in my inner circle. I think maybe it's because when I write I write for me, and I publish because well I am not popular in the bloggersphere, so about as many people in real life I would say these things to will read it here, actually it is the same people. Enough rambling.

I am a wonderful advice giver. I thrive on playing therapist, I am forever going to be that mother hen figure. I swear it is in my DNA to be that person. The downside however, usually if you are that person you suck at taking your own advice. Oh and as an added bonous I am incredibly anxious and stubborn. My personality tends to make no sense, but we will touch on that another day.

I have this odd medical condition, and lately with stress from life and my inability to get out of my own way it has been flaring up more often than not. Imagine your worst headache and multiple the pain by three ( at least) add some hulicinations, sensitivity to sound and touch and there you have one day a week for me.

I know what I need to do but I spend so much time focusing on everything and everyone else that I really don't feel like I have time to just unwind. I am a ticking time bomb, and it will probably end with me having an anxiety attack that leads to a heart attack.

I was doing good for a while. Then I broke my ankle, then everything seemed to spiral once I couldn't run anymore. Then I got lazy and ate my feelings, my feelings taste like carbs by the way, bagels, and brownies, cupcakes, you know the fun stuff. It is much easier to eat the feelings and bitch about gaining weight than it is to work through the emotions of raising a child who will most likely never call me mom, and never love me without strings attached. It's much easier to eat the feelings of being a crappy parent because everybody thinks I can do this better, realize this quicker, or accept life. It's much easier to wear yoga pants then try and button my jeans. It's so much easier.

Then those blessed headaches come, and I am reminded that I can't do that anymore. Then I hate my body, hate my life, and eat more because heyyy it sucks already. At some point I need to stop with this cycle.

At some point I am going to have to ask for help, or tell people to pound sand more often. At some point I am going to have to let people go because their bs is toxic and I am letting it kill me slowly. At some point, I have to accept that I detoured once again. At some point I have to forgive myself for all the things I think I have failed on and let it go and move forward. At some point.

Once again I have to find my some point. Once again I have to figure out the balance. Once again I have to look at who is in my life and how they fit. Once again I put this all out there and question why I bother doing this.

Once again, it's me and this keyboard, trying to figure life out, as a late bloomer.