Glow Up Diary, Part 8: I Fell Off The Wagon

I don’t know what happened.

I think the Depression Beast inside me clawed itself out of the cemented dungeon I pushed him in. It tries to tell me all the ways I’m unworthy and unloveable.

The main message I’m struggling to fight against is that I’m not meant to be here. I’m not meant to have good things. I’m not meant to have a happy life. I’m not meant to have a happy relationship.

It’s a feeling I’ve had my whole life. Growing up feeling like I didn’t fit in at home (in a religious, Indian-culture, and ultra-strict household) but I didn’t fit in with the outside world (looking different, not celebrating the same holidays, not being able to wear the same clothes, and not being able to participate in the same activities). Being undiagnosed with autism didn’t help either.

I don’t remember a time when I didn’t feel like an imposter. It’s not the feeling of not fitting in at work or school. I felt (note the use of past tense, I’m still trying to reframe my brain) like I didn’t fit in on Earth. It’s like I’m an alien and my parents dropped me off on this planet with a backpack and a Trapper Keeper. I don’t belong here.

It’s not a “I don’t belong here I should be dead” kind of thing. More like, “I don’t belong here, everyone knows it, I don’t blend in despite a life of trying, and I don’t get to have the perks that native humans have.”

I’ve alienated myself further with this divorce. My entire social network is married couples with kids. I’m trying new things and in the process, meeting new people. Nothing “clicks”.

Here’s the thing with imposters: we’re amazing at fitting in. We’re chameleons. This is the first time that I’m not fitting in. It’s scaring me. It’s the one thing I had going for me as someone with different versions of herself to match the environment. Now, when I show up to things, I find myself unable to strike up conversations with strangers.

I think it’s a combination of losing social skills since the pandemic and working from home along with my deep internal disinterest in new people.

I loved working from home before the pandemic. I loved working from home during lockdown (minus having to play homeschool teacher while going through a divorce). But I switched jobs and working entirely from home is destroying my social skills. At my prior job, my coworkers were my friends. We chatted outside of work and hung out together.

That’s not an option when you’re meeting people in other states during thirty-minute Zoom calls once a week. Even if you have nothing in common with your coworkers, at least in person there’s always office gossip or connecting over the Friday morning bagels. I didn’t think any of that mattered. I was wrong.

My kids were little before Covid life. That meant endless supervised playdates and birthday parties. So. Many. Birthday. Parties. Invites came from my kids’ classmates as well as my friends inviting us to their kids’ parties. My ex-husband watched the kids while I maintained our social network during these events.

My kids are older and can be dropped off for playdates. Their social network is smaller. No one invites their friends to their kids’ parties if the kids aren’t already buddies. I went from weekends socializing with dozens of people from different social groups to zero.

I’m struggling to give a shit about others’ lives. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear about couples going on trips together. I don’t want to hear about their kids’ athletics, which was something I couldn’t put my son in because his early years were spent in various therapies to address his chromosome disorder and autism. I don’t want to hear about home renovations or projects that cost a fortune.

Deep down, I know a lot of this stems from my breakup with Jeremy. Why is that incredibly handsome asshole still affecting my life? When we were together, I was happy. I didn’t sound like a loser with a failed marriage when I gushed about him to others. I had dates to look forward to and felt a connection with a potential mate.

Dating Jeremy also forced me to take care of myself. I exercised religiously. I got pedicures, dyed my hair (cheap boxed at home of course), slathered on self-tanner, and dressed up. I dolled myself up and in return, I got the compliments to validate the effort.

I don’t feel the need to do that anymore. When I went into an office, I was forced to shower and get out of my pajamas. I can easily pop into a Zoom call unshowered with PJs courtesy of my laptop’s shitty resolution. I was forced to be social with my peers.

Part of a glow up is to get out of one’s comfort zone. I thought that meant trying new things, like pickleball and golf.

I learned this week that I must make an effort to connect with my social network. Relying on random events once in a blue moon isn’t an option. My passive stance of waiting for a text invite isn’t enough anymore.

Here’s how I’m getting back on track with my glow up:

Reach out to my extended social network, not just my usual suspects.
Offer to visit friends that I used to see before Covid. It’s tough because my lunch hours are ruined courtesy of a job with East Coast hours, but I’ll find a way to make it work.
I have a particular friend who lives in San Diego who I’ve promised for two years to go down and visit. It’s time to follow through.
Eating has gone to hell because I never leave the house to go grocery shopping and Amazon Fresh changed the terms of their delivery service. Walmart’s groceries are crazy cheap; I can buy a damn vegetable.
Write out my glow up plans because when they’re not visible, I fall back into old habits.
Write in a gratitude journal.
For fuck’s sake, drink the freaking water and hydrate.

When I come up with an idea, I rush through it because I want to maintain momentum. I initially created my Glow Up Plan as a way to stop the endless descent into depression. My brain gave it a deadline of the end of June.

That’s not how it works.

These are habits and changes I want forever. Or at least, for the rest of the year. There’s no grade assigned or status report (well, other than keeping myself honest here on Medium). I want results and a destination instead of the cheesy “healing journey” mentality; my brain needs a mind shift to embrace the notion that this is an ongoing path.

There’s one extra thing I’m adding to this plan: it’s okay to cry.

To be specific: it’s okay to cry but it’s not okay to wallow.

I’ve decided, whether or not it’s healthy has yet to be determined, that it’s okay when I’m sad to bawl. What is not okay is to fall down a path of nothing-ever-works-out-for-me-I-should-just-jump-off-a-cliff sobbing. If I’m crying, then I’m mourning the loss of a happy childhood or time spent with my kids. I’m allowed to cry because my marriage wasn’t what I hoped it would be and I’m sad that I lost twenty years of happiness.

I’m allowed to cry when this all feels like so much work and no one is around to hug me with a soothing “there, there” pat on the back.

The glow up twist is that I’m not allowed to beat myself up anymore for crying. Sometimes, it’s the only outlet for my anxiety and a form of self-care.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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