Mid-Life Maybe?

 As winter finally struggles through its last gasps, it is with genuine relief that I welcome warmer weather, earlier mornings and brighter days.  I've never been a fan of winter, but never more so than in the last 8 years of my life since my weight loss surgery. Prior to that, I tended to run, if anything, a little on the warm side, and so winter was of little consequence to me. In fact, for the most part I welcomed winter, preferring to be rugged up and insulated as the frost crept over every exposed surface. However, losing 70+ kilos in body fat can have a significant impact upon the depth of one's insulation - and as a result I now find that cold weather seeps through the thickest of thermals and straight into my bones. When it gets that bad, I have no other option but to find an external source of heat, particularly for my feet. If I can't do that, I tend to eventually get irritable, cranky even. It's almost as if the cold becomes an external source of sensory input that combined with sound and light and smell overwhelms me. 

With warmer weather comes an awareness of eternal change - seasons come, seasons go, time no matter how eternal we are always continues to tick and before we know it we are on the downside of life, where the creeping years are endless and instant all at the same time. My therapist lately has been spending our sessions doing what we call 'scratching' - taking a painted fingernail and just very gently working at the hardened layers I've carefully painted one coat at a time over the facade of my life. My scaffolding, though solid, is cover for a big ol' mess of insecurities and hang ups lurking just below the surface. I'll be honest, I don't enjoy scratching. Walking into each session knowing that I will likely be delving into deep seeded pain is not exactly the most joyous prospect. Initially the scratching began with my latest obsession: anxiety over work, and where my career is headed. Or not headed. Not long ago I counted it up - out of my 39 years of life, I've spent a good 32-33 of them in some kind of education. Pre-school, school, failed attempts at undergraduate degrees, Certificates, and finally a few attempts at a Masters before finally completing the damn thing less than two months ago - you name it I've done it. Academia has been a constant companion - consuming whole days and years at times, and at other times a part time hum in the background while working full time. I've complained my way through millions of words for reports and essays, group assignments, residential schools, video conferences and presentations. And now I find myself 'here, at the end of all things' (Tolkien, Lord of the Rings: Return of the King). And as my therapist scratches away it leads me to wonder whether all of my internal push to carry the title of a 'social worker' is really just a topic for something deeper. Something more existential than merely what my next career move might be. 

Why am I not ok just being me? Right here and now? 

Perhaps I've actually never been ok with that. I mean, how would I know? I've always had something else on the go - a university degree, a job, a town to move to, a goal to achieve. I've literally ALWAYS had something else to go to. That next 'thing' that has always remained just out of reach. If I just had.....if I can just finish.......just wait til I.....

Weight loss. 

Kids. 

Bachelors Degree.

Buy a House.

Move to Tamworth.

Work in Child Protection.

Leave Child Protection.

Masters Degree. 

And now what???

I only just joked with a gal pal this morning that I thought perhaps I'm going through a midlife crisis - which made me roll my eyes since I've always held the opinion that having a midlife crisis is essentially an extremely self absorbed thing to do. I mean, surely there's got to be more important things in the world than me and my own ego. I read once that one should never bemoan getting older, it's a privilege denied to many....and that's true. But my issue is not with my age. I don't care what age I am. Forty isn't a scary number for me. 

You know what IS scary though? I feel like I'm supposed to have this shit figured out by now. And I don't. By now, I was supposed to have some kind of clear direction as to where my life was going, what kind of work I wanted to do, what kind of legacy I was going to leave behind in my life. My pursuit of academia, or work, or goals in general has always been towards something greater than me - a greater life's work that will endure after I am gone. But the truth is, my pursuit of these things has distracted me from the cold ugly truth...

I don't know shit at all, and whatever I do in this life will eventually turn to dust. My God and my eternal soul is all that I have to take with me when I leave this earth and even THAT is on shaky ground. I don't feel like there is a single denomination out there that is PURE and true - they all have a spin on scripture or an agenda. 

I'll be gone one day, hopefully a long time from now. Without the striving and straining, I don't quite know what is left, and that's perhaps scarier than even my own mortality at this point. The question of 'what do I do now?' hangs over my head like a fog. I'm still waiting for the fog to clear. 

I just hope I find more than just the scaffold.