Fifty Percent Life
Since I was about in 4th or 5th grade, I’ve wanted to write a book. Even through high school, I knew I wanted to but struggled with content. When my life was hit with a curve ball, I wondered if this was the story I was meant to write about. I had the idea 4 years ago that I wanted to write my experiences out. I had a dedicated word document on my computer. When the words came to me, I gave in to them and poured them out, whatever they were. There was no rhyme or method to the madness and I began to realize I’d have no idea how to form a book around this group of experiences. Forty-eight pages and 25,600 words, describing and reflecting on events and emotions, poignant and story-telling, of a life surely not unique, but fairly under-represented. Two years ago, I brought up the idea of a blog to my best friend. She was a visionary for me, taking what she knew about me and thinking up avenues for me to take that could get my words to people who may benefit from them. She even suggested eventually adding a podcast, where I could connect with field specialists and other women who had related stories and their journeys. It was a beautiful vision, but once more, I struggled with needing to have clean, flowing content.
Until last year, when I was speaking with a new medium friend (*gasp*, yes a medium). She asked me if there was a project that I was putting off, something in the works that I hadn’t really gotten a grip on, and she asked me why I hadn’t made the leap into it yet. So I shared my friend and I’s idea to start a blog, but I was struggling with how and where to start. She told me to just do it. Just get it out. Don’t overthink it. Just do. She went on to describe the way that I write, and my stories and how they are almost like popcorn, sometimes all over the board, and that was just the way it was meant to be. I just needed to jump.
So last year, I leapt. I didn’t dive into the content that I had initially dreamed of doing, but as events arose or memories were triggered, I wrote. I did not publish my content as often as I had a goal for, but I wrote what I could despite the fear I had in publicly displaying my inner most realities.
I settled on the name “Fifty Percent Life” because this was the life I felt like I had been living for a few years since my parenting time with the kids had been decided. There are nuances to this life change that no one prepares you for. In my case, prior to separation, I had been surrounded by other mothers and wives in the same season of life. Many who were also stay at home mothers like myself. While I was still able to spend time with these wonderful (very supportive and still dear to me) women, one big factor changed: they did not have the same social life as myself while my kids were with their father. I had a new job, I had what felt like -TONS- of kid free adult time, and my life and routines started to look a lot different from those who I had been around for almost a decade. My “weekends” weren’t the typical Saturday and Sunday. My new weekend was Monday and Tuesday. I started hanging out with new amazing and wonderfully supportive women who I worked with, who could relate to my new norms from a different perspective. They rallied me, we shared so many laughs and challenges together, and they were from an entirely different season of life. Kidless, husbandless mostly, and of varying ages and life experiences. And this was how I settled into my other 50% of life. It was a stark contrast - almost like leading a double life, or having an alter ego. It wasn’t until recently that I realized how evolved this alter-ego became, and how it became my mask and wall to live safely behind. Keeping separate the mom and home life I wanted and mourned not having, from the single 30-something distracting herself by living a life only for herself.
During this time of split personality, it’s important to remember, I was also still embattled in a very ugly, years-long litigation while attempting to heal traumas, new and old, and learn to cope with C-PTSD. How do I put this delicately…? This was a tangled mind f*ck. Like a long string of events and words woven tightly through so many of my thoughts, memories and brain processes, with frayed ends, making it difficult to unwrap the bound of mesh. I lived in my amygdala. Fight or flight was less of a response and more of a general way of life for me. There were constant check in’s with my therapist and my closest friend: is this a threat or is this a fear? All reality was skewed by perception. I needed to relearn how to discern the difference. The wounded, single, 30-something became the carrier of much of the responsibility to heal my brain and heart, through the trial and error of my new found independence and opportunities to meet new people during this 50% of my life.
I ended up rooting myself in a toxic-independence state of mind for a long time. I thought I was reclaiming a boundary for myself that had been missing for years – free will. And to be loved without conditions. I convinced myself of the necessity of this hyper-independence to protect myself of any repeat of my previous life. I was certain, if I gave an inch, I would again lose everything that I was. I couldn’t fathom any safety in a situation where I was asked to change. Even if that change were to better my life. Even if I wanted the change for myself! If someone else was asking it of me, my brain slipped right into the familiarity of fight or flight. My thought process told me they must be trying to whittle me down to fit their mold of who deserved love, and I needed to stand my ground. I was hypervigilant and harsh, masking it to myself as growth and positive self-preservation. While I thought I was building strength as a single mother, I only deepened the divide between each 50% of my life. I wasn’t healing, I was running. I wasn’t conquering fear, I was avoiding risk.
My protective “alter-ego” did fade. For a time, each 50% half of my life began to come back together again, and it felt like coming home. I was shown real love – consistent, patient, forgiving, caring, and a positive reinforcement, not just when I was at my best, but when I felt like I was at my worst too. The whole of me was loved. I began to feel safe, and I began to realize I never believed in my own worth. I’d been unconsciously telling myself I was lacking certain things, and this created feeling the need to compensate for them to be worthy of someone’s love - until I was loved for simply the mess that I was, during all of the inner turmoil I was trying to untangle. And things did begin to untangle and I learned more about who I was and who I was going to strive to be. How eternally appreciative I am of that kindness and love, helping me to heal and feel hope.
After the past decade, I’m no stranger to hearing inaccurate accounts of my life from others, and it still throws me back into heightened anxiety patterns. Teachers, old friends, family members, lawyers and loved ones. I’ve felt I needed to explain and explain myself, to convince them of my integrity and heart. I’ve made mistakes, I’ve gotten in my own way, and its tarnished or confused people’s understanding of me. I have learned to show myself grace. We are all imperfect humans. I remind myself how far I’ve come, and what good I bring to the table and I try to give myself permission to not carry the weight of other people’s perceptions. This one is a hard one, even so. Perceptions are precarious. I hold no judgement for those who misunderstand. I am well versed in the torment of the blurred lines of reality when you’ve been hurt or afraid.
Healing takes time. Healing takes honest introspection. Reflection takes experience. Experience is made up of wins and losses. Sometimes you’re in a sprint, sometimes you’re falling backwards. Sometimes you’re climbing mountains, sometimes you’re tripping over your own feet. I read something recently that struck a chord in me:
Your calling is going to crush you. If you're called to mend the brokenhearted, you’re going to wrestle with broken-heartedness. If you’re called to prophesy, you’re going to struggle to control your mouth… if you’re called to empower, your self-esteem will be attacked, your successes will be hard fought. Your calling will come with cups, thorns and sifting that are necessary for your mantle to be authentic, humble and powerful…
One thing is certain, to get to where you’re going, you’re going to be asked to do it all and keep moving forward. Keep jumping in. You simply cannot get to where you want to be if you stay where you are at.
50 pages. 27,105 and counting.
