It’s me, hi.
Did you know that being a single mother to two children in one of the most expensive cities in the world is very, very difficult?
I have to put a bunch of caveats here so as to minimize the trolling: Yes, I am aware that it was my decision to relocate. Yes, I am aware that I am #blessed with a stellar education and a solid skill set, albeit not one that has ever felt like it’s brought with it tremendous security (and YES, I know it was me who made the decision to disregard stable employment in favor of doing all of the many things I love to do).
My memories of the pandemic aren’t bad, exactly. They’re almost magical. I remember piling old makeup on the kitchen counter so the kids could make mixtures. Putting on classical music while we washed the windows and waved at our neighbors through the glass. There was this one family who taped their daughter’s drawing of a rainbow face-out on their front window, and every time I passed their house I felt a little swell of connection.
But I developed new habits, not all of them productive or healthy. I spent a lot of time in bed (I believe the kids call it “bed-rotting”; I would like to announce that I continue to be an enthusiastic practitioner). Whatever that hustle inside of me was that had me springing out of bed in the morning and working working working all day, publishing posts and writing books and filming shows, it just…went away. It felt irrelevant, striving for anything much bigger than mere existence (which is, of course, quite the endeavor itself).
I stopped writing here, and that was both necessary at the time and also not good for my mental health. For well over a decade, I’ve used this site to work through my problems, and that might not be good for everyone, but for me it was. Could I journal privately? I could, I suppose, but I love the relationships I’ve built here, I treasure the advice that pours in and is sometimes cruel, but mostly wonderful.
There’s a woman helping me work on my site right now – it got hacked again, and that’s been part of my silence; I didn’t want to suggest that people visit RG if they were going to get anxiety-inducing pop-ups. We chatted on the phone earlier, and she knows everything about me. Not in a weird way, in a humbling one. She’s followed my story through it all, and that is…I mean, what a gift. I am honored to have this community, and I think I have a lot of unexpressed grief surrounding having allowed it to flounder.
I wonder if I stopped writing here (notice how I never say “blogging”? I hate that word; always have) because I didn’t have anything left to say. Or maybe I didn’t want anyone to hear whatever I had left to tell them.
* * *
I’ve been depressed, off and on, these past few years. Shocker, I know. But it’s not always, and I’ve had enough therapy to know that feelings aren’t facts, et cetera. I know what to do to pull myself out of these spots – sleep, don’t drink alcohol, eat passably well, meditate, exercise. But then I don’t do those things, because I’m impossible and stubborn. I’ve also lived enough years on this planet to know that, based on extensive experience, I tend to pop out on the other side okay.
I am good at reinvention.
But this time feels different. Same anxiety, but less confidence in myself. You know why? It’s because I don’t want anything. Which sounds like a wonderful first-world problem to have, and it is, but it’s not coming from a sense of abundance. Rather, I feel frozen in place. I have this sense of having done everything I thought I wanted to do. I wanted to write one book, but wrote or co-wrote eleven. I wanted to own a home, and I do (two, actually, although I’m selling my condo – but that’s another story). I wanted to host shows, because it’s fun for me, and I’ve hosted many over the years. But those wants have mostly been completed, to what degree of satisfaction I’m not sure, and I’m also not sure what’s on the other side.
Where my passions have been resting over the last couple of years have been with screenwriting. But did you know that it is fucking impossible to get movies made within a timeframe that in any way serves to financially support a family of three? It is. So while I do have projects in development, my Hollywood experiences from years past left me embittered enough to not believe that anything is real until a check is physically in my hand, and I am watching an actual camera pointed at actual actors.
Speaking of embittered! Holy crap, dating is not fun. (It was for about six months, after which: no.) I don’t know what happened to men since my last go-round of singledom – maybe I’m just perceiving them more accurately with all this alleged midlife wisdom? – but they’re kind of…ahhhh…terrifying. The stories that I have range from bizarre to depressing to frightening, with very, very little romance or joy in the mix. The other day, fifteen minutes into a FaceTime “date” with a 47-year-old bartender with no children and no noticeable charm or ambition, my supposed suitor burped loudly in my digital face and then said these exact words: “I’ve been staring at screens all day. You’re lovely to look at, but I don’t want to look anymore.”
Would you like to hear an embarrassing secret? I totally thought I’d partner up again right away, post-divorce, because that’s how I’ve always rolled. I got myself into a situation where I now have a hundred-pound horse (a.k.a. my golden retriever) living in my house because there was a little voice in my head saying “Eh, you’ll meet someone soon. He’ll train the dog!” It has been five years. The dog is not trained. (I love him, but CALM DOWN, ARCHIE.)
Do I want to go to a cool new restaurant? No. Do I want to play pickle ball, or learn to surf? Not really. Do I want to travel? Well, sure, but children and pets and plants that need to be watered and money. Do I want to write another book? I don’t, not right now, and I couldn’t for the life of me tell you why.
What do I want? To sleep through the night. To watch movies with my children. To have someone show up in my life and tell me what to do, so I don’t have to be that person for just one minute, please please please.
I want a partner, but mostly so that I can take a nap and know that the sky won’t fall.
* * *
I’m fairly certain they call this a midlife crisis. Or, as established earlier, depression. I’m sure I’m not alone here with these feelings.
But they are not acceptable to me. I look at photos from years ago and I know things weren’t perfect and photos lie, but one thing I do remember is having infinite reserves of energy. I had ambitions, and I went and figured out how to make them happen. The very act of “doing things” also seemed simpler, in some ways, when I was married – because whether they worked out or not, there was someone to do those things alongside. Even if you weren’t sure what the future looked like, you had a partner in that lack of surety.
Circa 2014. Who even is this person?
I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know where I want to live once the kids’ school system is no longer a concern – a time that I know is coming soon, even though weren’t they tiny biscuits just yesterday? I can’t say for sure what my job will look like in five years, or even five months, honestly. I don’t really think a romantic partnership is in the cards for me, having seen what I’ve seen out there. I also don’t know how much longer my parents will be as healthy as they are now, and at what point the flip will happen where caring for them becomes my explicit responsibility (not to mention how one even takes on that kind of responsibility alongside all the others that demand attention). That is a lot of uncertainty for a person with fairly obvious control issues.
But.
There are things I have learned over the past couple of years that give me a great deal of hope. I’ve learned that I might want a man in my life, but I absolutely do not need one in order to get things done, and get them done well (ok, aside from training Archie). I’ve also learned that despite my ongoing singledom – my last “relationship” was both soul-crushing and five years ago – the love in my life is almost embarrassingly abundant. Our society does not value platonic love, and it’s because of those societal teachings that I’ve not historically valued it, either. But oh god, do I have myself some good friends.
On my 43rd birthday, I decided that even though parties for myself embarrass me, I’d throw a little tea party at my place. I expected only a handful of friends to show because people have their own lives and responsibilities and kids to ferry about on Saturday afternoons…but there it was: my house, absolutely full of women and music and cake and little bottles of fresh juices from the farmers market to mix up with the champagne. They even brought me presents. Presents! At 43! I expected the de rigeur bottle of wine at most – even that wasn’t necessary – and I cannot tell you what it felt like to know that these women wanted to bring me something that they knew I’d love…and that they were right, because they know me.
So what do I dream of? I think it’s being with my friends – which, sure, includes the occasional man, because I am lucky enough to have three or four whom I trust completely and implicitly, albeit platonically. I dream of living below my means, for the sake of less stress. Gardening. I want open doors, a home where the people I love feel free to come and go as they please. Someone to sit quietly with and read by the fireplace. A second act to my career, but one that doesn’t pull my eyes and mind from my children while they’re still young enough to want them.
They’re simpler things I want these days, I suppose. Which is one of the gifts of aging: The discovery that money and fame and accolades – even excitement – aren’t the be-all end-all you once thought them to be. That surprises are still – I think – possible, and that dreams might still be there, even if they look very, very different.
And about those dreams: Even if – when – they change…they’re such beautiful things to hold up like diamonds in the light, like little treasures that help you imagine what the future might bring.
