soliloquy

[ suh–lil–uh-kwee ]

noun

plural so·lil·o·quies.

1. an utterance or discourse spoken to oneself, without regard for whether any other hearers are present (often used as a device in drama to disclose a character’s innermost thoughts):Hamlet’s soliloquy begins with “To be or not to be.”
2. the act of talking while or as if alone.

I was meant to have died young.

Young and beautiful and a little bit high.

There was a day when I thought if I made it to 30, I would have reached old age. Then, I would happily jump on that jet plane that’s meant for better things.

But, I find myself a little surprised to have seen 46 birthdays now. 46 summers. 46 Christmases. 46 years of my teeny-tiny soul tip-toeing around in her earthly form. Minding her own fucking business.

It seems to me that for 16 years now, I’ve been living on borrowed time.

I emerged from my mental illness fog only 6 years ago. 40 years of swimming upstream in rain and fog and dark, ice-cold waters. Alone.

I fought it off for 40 years. Inexperienced. Uneducated. Unguided. Unsupported. Mental health mystified and managed to avoid me for 40 years. I had completely given up by the age of 28 and hit close to rock bottom at 38.

I am ashamed of those ten years between ages 28 and 38.

Wallowing in self-hate and self-pity, I did little to improve my situation. I slopped around in my symptoms like a pig in shit. Like I loved it.

Like I loved spending money recklessly. Like I loved having little career or financial ambitions. Like I loved having minimal responsibilities. Like I loved wearing unflattering clothes and grooming minimally. Like I loved praying for a long sleep.

I drank gallons of Corona and wine weekly. It helped numb the pain of the depression and (sometimes) calm the mania. I was with men I didn’t love. Some of them I didn’t even like.

So, here I am. 46 birthdays into a life I had no intention of living.

A life. I now intend to. LOVE.

And I’m ready to do the work. I’m ready to live a meaningful life. At least try, I guess.

I’m taking the meds.

I’m reading the books. I’m talking to the professionals. I’m drinking the water. I’m cutting off the people who no longer serve me. I’m doing the yoga. I’m doing the meditating. I’m doing the shadow work. I’m exploring the mysterious soul. I’m saving the money. I’m taking the vitamins. I’m doing the work. I am doing the fucking thing.

46 birthdays into a life I had no intention of living, but six years of living a life of intention.

I was fed up with being a mess. When I turned 40, I made some promises to myself. Not the fluffy fluffy part of myself that needed hugs and kisses The part of myself that was dissatisfied and pissed off at my first 40 years. I promised myself to have my shit together by the time I turned 60. I also aimed for fairly stable mental health. Happiness, confidence. Pride. I want these things for myself in my golden years.

It’s funny making goals for senior citizenship. What if I don’t even make it to that long?

This past life of mine, was meant for someone who transitions to the next consciousness at age 30.

So, I had a decision to make at 40 years old.

I continue living to die young. Or, I make some long-term goals as if I was going to hang out for a little while longer.

Mother had given me a book after my third stint in the mental health hospital. It focused on micro-steps and micro-habits making sense to me at the time. I needed baby stepping. Maybe a sprinkle of hand-holding. I promised myself to use this method to just see what happened.

I started with my appearance. Life is nicer for the pretty people. Everyone knows that.

I was obese.

My facial skin was terrible, and I had raggedy hair with yellow teeth. My body skin was dry, and my feet were covered with thick, painful, peeling callouses. I had unkempt facial and body hair. I suffered from toe-nail fungus (I still have that. Please, for the love of God and all His saints, let me find a way to get rid of this affliction). I wore makeup only to work and smoothed and styled my hair only on special occasions.

That was the last of 25 years that I dedicated to smoking nicotine. Saving money. Lots of it. Ceasing the damage already done to my teeth, skin and lungs. Immediately. By stopping something. It wasn’t easy, but so much easier that actually doing something. To drop the bullshit rather than pick up challenging habits.

A “micro” I could handle. My micros require micros.

Now, when I say quitting wasn’t easy, I’m understating the challenge astronomically. I put a lot of thought into it before hand.

I wanted to do it right the first time.

I don’t have time for fuckery right now. I only have 20 years until I am 60 at this point.

I chose a cessation aid. The patch. I used it to slowly wean off the nicotine. I also used it to break the habit of picking up cigarettes and the hand to mouth actions. My insurance paid for them because they were prescribed to me. This allowed me the financial freedom to get the patches without interruption.

I avoided anyone who smoked. I avoided indulging in, “just one.” I wasn’t living alone, so I had people to hold me accountable.

I smoked joints for the first few weeks. The first were wrapped in tobacco leaves. This gave me a little nicotine unintentionally. I imagine it helped make the first day a little easier as well.

I stopped habits I had linked to smoking. Sitting outside in my catio on my laptop or reading is where I did most of my leisurely smoking. I found different ways to be leisurely inside. I ate inside at restaurants and even stopped camping. In a way, I get less fresh air now that I’ve quit smoking.

I avoided alcohol altogether for many months. Alcohol limited my will power. I also picked up busy-work. Hobbies. Journal writing. I started watching more television and movies. I bought a shit ton of Blow-Pops.

At first, I struggled with the constant urge to smoke. I had to push the thought out of my mind at least three to four times every thirty seconds. That is not an exaggeration at all. Each time the thought came I panicked and had to talk myself down.

Each time I did that, made the next time come a little longer away from the one before. Some days were easier than others of course, but I stayed the course. Remembering to use the tools I set in place before hand. Meditation. Yoga. Grounding myself.

June 11, 2019 was day I took the micro-micro-step toward the happiness, confidence and pride by telling myself that I wasn’t a smoker.

I wasn’t a smoker, so I didn’t buy a fresh pack that day. Instead, I slapped on a patch and prayed in my own way for peace and calm.

Nutrients can get to my hair, skin and nails now making them more attractive. Smoke and nicotine no longer bombarded my teeth and mouth. My lungs are clearer and I no longer have a smoker’s cough. I smell better. And I smell better. I’m no longer afraid to get physically close to someone or just breathe around another.

I helped my health. I save time from being wasted. I save thousands of dollars. I don’t sneak off to corners so people don’t people see my shame just to get a fix. My car smells like a Bath & Body Works car scent. My clothes smell like fragrance beads. My hair smells like salon-quality shampoo and conditioner. Things I can afford now.

I was on my way to being physically appealing for a 46 year old woman. This is the actual micro-step to get me to my goals. On my way to happiness, confidence and pride at 60 years old.

A small one.

Okay, a shallow one. But, an important one all the same.

I am here now. Showing up. Everyfuckingday. Rectifying for the person I was at 30 years and one day. A day when I wasn’t supposed to even exist.