cliff jumping, codependency, and the amish.

So, I cut my hair.

Needed to jump off a cliff.

Jumping off one cliff usually leads to another cliff.

Now I feel like I need to disclaim that – like I’m just some thrill seeking, erratic adventure addict.

Perhaps I am a little.  I just find that bravery leads to more bravery.  And, I don’t mean bravery to be stupid or reckless.  I mean bravery to become whoever it is you want to be.  I understand why Eleanor Roosevelt said do something everyday that scares you.  Because when you start retreating from life, it becomes easier and easier to retreat.  And, before you know it, you're over thinking everything.  Analysis Paralysis.

Maybe I feel so gung ho about cliff jumping because I used to live a life of retreating.  I just…stopped fighting.  After fighting in and for my marriage for years, I gradually became numb.  I just wanted peace so badly that I stopped.  I complied, pieces of my Self slowly dying as I became who I thought he needed me to be, who I thought I was supposed to be.  Behaved.  Submissive.  Compliant.  Anything – just to be liked, loved.

And, that identity fits me now about as well as the midriff bearing shirts I used to wear just to please a man.

Back to cliff jumping.  It’s more than thrill seeking.  It’s this curiosity – it’s wondering what I’m capable of.  It’s this realization in my thirties that life is short and all the dreams of younger years don’t just happen.  It’s this realization that some nebulous will of god isn’t going to just miraculously find me, like I once thought.  It’s this…hunger….to do more…to be more.  And, the only way more happens is, well, is if I make it happen.

Maybe this is just what happens when you get in your thirties.  Or maybe it’s the beauty of losing my identity…

pastor’s wife. 

stay-at-home mom. 

perfect couple.   

good decorator. 

cute house. 

cute kids.   

Not that those things are bad – because they aren’t, especially if the core is real.  It’s just that the core of mine wasn’t.  I was caught up in the picture.  The idea.  And, so I just kept patching up holes in some shitty, shiny, veneer.

But, I think I knew the kind of person I wanted to be, even knew deep down what had to be done to be that.  But, it just seemed too hard and patching holes so much easier. 

So, codependent I remained. 

You see, if someone else is in control of my life, then I have someone to blame.  Nothing is my fault.  I don’t have to be responsible. 

Until the pain of staying the same became more painful than the pain of change. 

I filed for divorce.

I lost my reputation.

I lost friends.

I traded the land of Ikea and fabricated furniture for Amish wood.

That sounded really bad.

I should probably leave the metaphors to my sister. 

You know what I mean.

I mean I was suffocating in an American Dream with no substance. 

I was preoccupied with the appearance of my life and not my life.

I loved what people thought of me – or what I thought they thought of me, anyway.   Never mind what I thought of myself.  Life was for other people.  The doctrines of my youth – or at least how they were presented – only seemed to perpetuate my dysfunction…“If any man would come after me, he must deny himself….” Luke 9:23.   

And, it wasn’t about leaving my marriage and finding a better one.  It was about reclaiming self-respect. Finding my voice.  It was about discovering what I believed, not just what I was told to believe.   And, I think this is possible within a relationship – I do.  But, sometimes, it just isn’t.  And, you just know it.  You feel it in your gut.  You’ve exhausted tears and hours and hours in counseling.  It’s just…fundamentally broken.  And, there comes a time when closing the store is the brave thing to do.    

I guess I write all that because it’s the kind of stuff I would have wanted to read back when I was patching holes, not because I think everyone should all go leave their marriage.  And, I love Ikea, by the way.  And, I’m not dating an Amish guy, though I dig beards.

So, I’ll leave it at that and stop explaining myself. 

Because maybe you’re patching holes.  Or maybe you have a badass relationship.  Awesome.  Either way, I find that writing about it is redemptive and somehow gives the mess some order.

Once again, I started writing about one thing and ended up writing about another.  The ADHD meds are clearly not a cure-all.  And, now I’m rereading trying to figure out how I got from point A to point B.

I guess what I really want to say is I like my hair.