Four years ago my annual income was approximately $120,000. I drove a $50,000 car, fully decked out. I owned my own home which I furnished with custom made furniture. Every single thing in my condo -with the exception of a couple of pictures and mirrors- was new and not cheap. I had facials and pedicures and manicures and vacations; I had cash in the bank, credit cards with $30,000 spending limits, investments and $10,000 in cash sitting in my safe deposit box. On the surface every thing in my life was going great, I was living beyond my hopes and ambitions.
And I was miserable.
I absolutely hated my life. With the exception of the best best friend and best little sister ever in the history of the world, I cared about nothing and no one. I isolated myself from most of my friends, I could barely tolerate my family. I had sex periodically but I didn’t date. I got stoned every single evening. I hated getting up in the morning and I hated going to bed at night.
That was when I was a toe length away from believing my father’s philosophy that life was a shit sandwich and you had to take a bite every day. I wanted to fall in love, but believed no one would ever be able to tolerate me. My desire to have a child was never stronger, but I knew that would never happen for me. I resigned myself to the fact that I would most likely be alone for the rest of my life and told my nephew that he would probably have to change my diapers in my old age because I genuinely believed there would be no one else to do it. I knew that I could survive but I had no idea what it meant to be truly happy.
But a part of me couldn’t let go of the belief that I was missing something. No matter how many times I had tried to turn things around, no matter how many times I’d failed, something in me still believed things could be better. And I didn’t want to continue on the path I was on. I would sacrifice everything just to know for sure… one way or another.
