In an offhand conversation about putting on some weight in the last few weeks Mems managed to sum up my 30-year old angst without even trying.
"You just seem lost lately."
She attributed my recent bouts of depression, weight gain and general malaise to changes at work, uncertainty in things. I think it's the basic core of my life right now.
What Mems noticed is a symptom of a cold truth: I don't know what the hell I'm doing.
I know, no one has everything figured out, things change, people grow, blah, blah, blah.
I want to be comfortable in my own skin. I feel like I've developed a thick skinned, brash (bitchy) shell around myself in an effort to conceal my insecurities, the fact that I have no idea who I am. I think the only one who knows me is Mems, and I'm terrified of the day no one will know me anymore.
Maybe I thought by 30 I'd have more things figured out. I'd be more than the loud girl with the blonde hair and big boobs. Instead I've identified myself at tits, teeth and hair as long as I remember.
I'm loud and opinionated to counteract that I'm uncomfortable in most social situations. I hide myself in layers to cover my gut, the last time I was thin I was working overnights and had a case of gastro-enteritis that meant I didn't eat a normal meal for almost a year. I miss it sometimes, which says a lot.
It took 5 years of therapy to come to terms with the death of my Pops and my lack of normal relationship with my parents. I guess I should have worked on my relationship with myself.
These thoughts nagged me as I went for a run outside the other day, away from the distractions of my gym treadmill.
I was forced to think about myself, my life, my hopes and my dreams for 3.1 miles. I got shin splints so it took awhile.
I also came to the conclusion that it's okay I don't have any answers. It's not okay to let those insecurities keep me from going after adventures, ideas or dreams.
It's time to put my money where my ass is.