Could Be…

I was reading r/adhdwomen on Reddit recently.

I try not to even open the app. It’s wildly addictive. But it’s also very therapeutic on some days. Days that I need to be told that I’m doing ok. At least X, Y or Z are not happening to me.

Could be worse.

It reminds me of a childhood book I had, a favorite, that was titled, “Could Be Worse.” It was about two children, a brother and sister, I believe, that told their grandfather something. He said, “Could be worse.” The things that happened in the story continued to get worse and worse. Until what? What happened at the end? For some reason, I can’t remember. I will have to look for this book. All I remember is that their grandfather dismissed them saying, “Could be worse.” Perhaps I should have a conversation with my therapist about this.

In the question on Reddit, someone was sharing what was happening in their life and asking for input. One of the responses added a link. I usually skip these. If you are on Reddit for any length of time, you know the feedback devolves very quickly. But this time, this group of people was being very helpful. Very encouraging. So I clicked. **

My God, the story was beautiful! Written in a way that invoked every emotion. I chuckled to myself as I sat in my chair, eager to see what happened next, but also hoping it would never end. And then, as I continued, on the verge of tears.

Although the story had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with my life, the sadness and longing she felt were all too familiar.

Yesterday, I had a conversation with my son about a friend of his. I gave him some “mom advice” about how his friend was feeling. It came across as if I had read a book or taken a class in psychology. The advice was somewhat clinical. So I stopped what I was doing and looked him in the eye and explained from a personal point of view how I knew.

I hadn’t read about it in a book.

I hadn’t watched a show or listened to a professor.

I knew.

My son says that he is often shocked when I share things. He forgets that I have had two lives. He sees who I am now, and forgets that I used to be someone else. But that’s ok. Because he never met that person.

Thank God!

The story I read was about a woman who called off a wedding to a man who was very cold and distant. I cannot relate to that. At all.

But I can relate to feeling like I am too much but also that I am not enough. That I am asking too much of everyone around me. That I am too loud or too animated. So I push that person down. I am afraid to ask for anything, so I ask for nothing. At least, I try. I am afraid that I don’t do enough or give enough.

My youngest two (twins) have graduated. I am done. I homeschooled all four of my children, so I am officially retired. Although I enjoyed every aspect of that, I am now free to do something else. Whatever I want.

I want to do this.

I want to write. I want to speak. I want to be heard.

I’m also afraid.

Afraid of failing. Afraid of not even making it to a place to fail. Afraid of doing nothing.

Most mornings I listen to inspirational speakers. One of my favorites, Jay Shetty, has said you are never ahead and never behind. You are exactly where you are supposed to be.

I try to accept that, but it is very hard. Why can’t I learn everything faster? Why can’t I be better? I feel like I’m better! Why isn’t it enough? And if it is enough, why am I not where I want to be? Or, at the very least, why am I not closer?

In the story, the author laments not being wildly optimistic in guessing the number of pigs she would see on the way back to her camp. There was no money involved. There was no penalty, however small, for guessing incorrectly. So why had she not thrown caution to the wind, and guessed with wild abandon?

That is a question I ask myself a lot, if I’m honest.

Why do I not expect wonderful things to happen? Why do I not anticipate abundance and overflow?

Why do I not dream?

The dreams of childhood are long gone. But why? Why can’t they come true?

When I was a child, I dreamed of teaching. I spent most of my time teaching my dolls. Reading. Writing. Arithmetic. I made tests for them, then graded the tests. I would stand in front of them and lecture. I would write on my chalkboard. I loved teaching.

When it came time to go to college, teaching wasn’t good enough for my parents. So I got an engineering degree. Not to blow it off like it was easy, because it certainly wasn’t. But I hated it.

In the end, I homeschooled my children. So, I became a teacher. Just as I always wanted.

That dream came true.

I may not have gone the traditional route, but the dream came true, nonetheless.

What about other dreams?

I am starting to remember them.

Do I dare speak them out loud? Do I dare to try to achieve them?

Am I too old?

Or am I seasoned, filled with life experience?

I am going to choose to be wildly optimistic and dream a vivid future filled with hope and joy and fulfilment of self.

Instead of expecting the worst, I will expect the best. Better than the best. Unrealistically amazingly bestest of the best things.

Who knows? It could be true.

**https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2019/07/16/the-crane-wife/