I've been at yoga four days in a row, generally practicing up front instead of hiding in the back. My current haircut's a good one. The drama of NYC high school applications is on the back burner for now. At the moment, except for the last minute pressure of holiday gifts, life is relatively mellow. I gave up coffee—decaf—a few weeks ago and the hot chocolate I'd been substituting every day this week.
I'm writing this on my one day old mini macbook air. And I have any number of creative, intriguing, challenging projects I could dive into and make happen.
So why am I so miserable?
The fatness that ruled my life for so many years is back. Could be the residue of all the half and half and sugared drinks I'd been living on. Could be some serious pms kicking my butt. My period's late and I'm bursting out of my skin. Could be that it's all in my head. I spent years in this place of feeling so badly about myself I'd create reasons to beat myself up.
I'm just not sure why I'm back here.
A significant part is that I'm not accomplishing anything, not in the way I had been for so many years. I started writing books before Iz was born and have had projects in the works on some level from then until FLOW. In the 2 years since that came out? Nothing. Except for parenting and volunteering and sporadic design work and donating an organ. Nothing creative to sink my teeth into, to get lost in, to research and shape and explore.
I could write the graphic novel/movie that Iz is so desperate for me to work on. I could develop the kidney book/one woman show a friend of mine has graciously offered to direct. I could work on the documentary series another wants to partner with me on. I could pull together the advertising book that Iz and I brainstormed the other day. I could delve into the yoga book that so many think is a great idea. I could redo my website. Rebuild my design business. There are so many viable ideas sitting in front of me to choose from.
But, I can't.
I can't do anything. I bought this laptop as an impetus to start again. To make a statement to the universe that I'm ready to have my life back. My creativity back. The part of me that flows, that gets lost in the zone, that has ideas sparking to life day and night.
I don't want to be this person anymore. The one who lives in grey shapeless t-shirts. Who has nothing interesting to say. Who's jealous of other people's apartments, jobs, clothes, vacations, relatives, skin, thinness.
What I should be is proud of all I've done. Instead, I'm feeling like a loser for all that I'm not.