A Hero’s Journey

The first dystopian novel I ever read was called The City of Ember. It was about a civilization that had moved underground due to some apocalyptic event, but years later, their electricity was failing. Two young friends discovered a secret that had been covered up, and it landed on them to save their friends and family from a crumbling society. From that moment on, I was hooked. Any book that involved the world falling apart in some fashion as the protagonists fought against the oppressors to save the world was a book I was going to read.

From the classics– 1984, Brave New World, and Fahrenheit 451, to the more modern classics such as The Hunger Games, Divergent, The Maze Runner, to even more obscure titles like The Knife of Never Letting Go, I devoured these books one right after the other. At pretty much any moment in time, you could find me with my head in a book, escaping my real life in favor of those colorful worlds that played out before me as if I were watching a movie in my mind. Each story drew me in until I was no longer just reading, but experiencing. I endured the despair of worlds in ruin, reeled at revelations of hidden truths, and celebrated the victory of those who dared to challenge the status quo.

The love for these novels followed me into adulthood, and I have even reread some of the better ones from my teenage years. I am constantly seeking out new and exciting dystopian novels to pull me from my life into more exciting realities. I find comfort in knowing that everything ultimately works out in the end. The message of these books are often one of hope: no matter how far we stray, we are never beyond finding our way back to the truth.

Lately, I’ve been feeling completely and utterly lost. After two years of struggling with my alcohol consumption, I found my way to sobriety just before falling pregnant with my first child. The nine months that followed were easier than I expected in some ways, while being harder in others. The easy thing was to not drink. It wasn’t about me anymore, so the option was completely off the table. I found that I didn’t even crave it anymore. In fact, if my husband drank during this time, the smell of it on his breath would make me sick to my stomach. My pregnancy was also relatively uneventful (until the end, but that’s a story for another day.) I felt extremely fortunate that I didn’t struggle very much with morning sickness. Sure, my body underwent a lot of growth and change, which came with a lot of aches, pains, and exhaustion, but I ultimately really enjoyed being pregnant.

The hard part was feeling as if I had this deadline to get my entire life together. If you’re a frequent reader of this blog, then you already know that my childhood was not a good one. My parents were not equipped to help me grow into a functional adult because they themselves were not functional adults. I have spent much of my own adult life trying to unlearn all of the toxic, unhelpful coping methods and transform into someone better. As such, it’s extremely important to me that I give my own child a different, better life. As you can imagine, that’s a lot of pressure to put on yourself, especially as a first time parent. Not to mention, extremely unrealistic to “fix” every aspect of your life within less than a year’s time.

With the birth of my child came a profound and irreversible shift. My universe realigned itself around this small, extraordinary life I had brought into being. What once felt important faded in comparison. In loving her, I began to grieve for my younger self, seeing with great clarity the ways I had been failed. I felt a fierce, aching desire to shield my baby from all that I had once faced alone. And when I looked at her in all of her fragile perfection, I saw a hope that had never existed in my world until her.

While pregnant, I definitely struggled to keep up with my identity. Hobbies became less interesting because I was drained. Keeping up with household tasks and chores was a struggle because, again, I was drained, and towards the end I was forced to rest for mine and baby’s health. Yet none of this compared to the absolute, all-consuming task of caring for a newborn baby. Before giving birth, I heard people talk about the sleepless nights, the round-the-clock feeds, the crying (both from baby and mom.) I thought I was prepared. I thought that, with support from my husband, it would be a challenge, but ultimately manageable. And I suppose I am talking to you right now on the other side of all of it, so I did make it, but man, was it HARD.

For the first month, my husband was home from work and we tackled the nights in shifts. This absolutely saved me, because getting a four hour stretch of sleep at the beginning of the night was the difference between hope and hopelessness. When I lacked too much sleep, it messed with my mind. It convinced me that I was a terrible mother and wife. It convinced me that I would never feel joy again. It was dark, but that sleep let some of the light in. After he returned to work, it became clear very quickly that our daughter sleeping in the bassinet wasn’t sustainable. At best, we could get a 45 minute stretch before she was waking up. If sleeping on my chest however, she could sleep for hours at a time. Yet, I knew the risk of co-sleeping. As an emergency room nurse, I know all too well the risk of co-sleeping. I was terrified, yet the alternative was just as scary. Getting no sleep meant I was trying to care for myself and a baby while being sleep deprived. That wasn’t safe either.

At the 11 week mark, it was time to return to work. Through the week, I was a stay-at-home mom, and on the weekends, Josh became a stay-at-home dad. My break from taking care of my daughter was taking care of patients, some sicker than others. While at work, I had to pump every 3-4 hours to keep up my breast milk supply and stash for my baby at home. So, even when not in full-time mom mode, the mental load never ended.

Sometime around one month postpartum, I allowed myself to drink. It started slow, mostly because I had to plan it carefully around breastfeeding so as to not introduce alcohol to baby’s system. For a couple months, I drank once a week. This slowly ramped up over time, especially once baby was sleeping through the night. Suddenly I found myself drinking two to three times a week. I was struggling with social media addiction, spending pretty much every free moment on my phone. What started as legitimate reasons for not being able to take care of myself or the household turned into excuses as I found myself squandering what little time I did have to scroll through the lives of strangers that have no idea I exist, which became even more compelling and interesting with a little bit of alcohol in my system.

My thoughts had become a constant hum, cycling endlessly through all that demanded my attention and all of the ways I feared I was falling short. I questioned whether I was failing my daughter. Not just because of drinking, but maybe I wasn’t doing enough with her, or encouraging her to sleep in her crib enough. Each decision was shadowed by doubt, a persistent voice wondering whether I chose correctly. Alcohol had become my only reprieve, yet it also seemed to deepen it. The mornings after drinking left me depleted, reinforcing the very fears I was trying to escape, and by day’s end, drawing me back toward the same cycle.

It’s exhausting.

It’s isolating.

It’s all-consuming.

Prior to becoming pregnant, my relationship with my husband was not in the best place, largely due to my drinking. During pregnancy, things improved drastically. The hope of a new life, paired with the stability that came from sobriety allowed us to communicate without constant arguments. This extended to approximately six weeks postpartum. Then, slowly communication began to break down again. I was sacrificing myself in many ways that was leading to resentment building, even though Josh had no idea I was even making said sacrifices. I was losing myself in the hedonism, actively sabotaging my long-term happiness.

In the past couple of weeks, I have felt as if I am waking up from a years-long fog. I suddenly see so clearly the patterns and cycles I was stuck in, causing conflict where none needed to be. With this awakening comes a lot of complicated emotions. Feelings of guilt for allowing myself to get here. Feelings of quiet hopefulness, finally seeing a way out. Confusion as to how I had let so many things that I loved fall to the wayside. Love for my daughter and husband. Grief for my younger self, and the life I deserved. Pride that despite the paths I have taken throughout life, I somehow always find my way back to myself.

In attempting to spend less time on social media, while my daughter naps, I have been reading books, listening to inspiring podcasts, writing in my journal, taking walks, staying on top of house chores, and making sure I’m eating and drinking enough. I’m avoiding alcohol. I’m actively pursuing things that I know make me happy, even if some of the joy is still lacking. I’m making a conscious effort to connect with my husband at the end of each day, and whenever important communication arises, I do my best to listen and validate– rather than argue and defend. It’s all very new, and I know I have a lot of work ahead of me.

Today, I listened to a video exploring Carl Jung’s philosophies, which spoke of the heroes that live within each of us– potentials waiting quietly for permission to be realized. “The hero does not appear when everything is already clear. The hero appears when a person dares to step into the unknown. They are not certain what is waiting ahead, but they keep walking anyway.”

Every human carries within them paths not yet taken, possibilities not yet lived. More often than not, these potentials are quietly eclipsed by the demands of life, by the roles we are required to fill. We craft masks to navigate in the world, and in my own case, these inner possibilities were slowly smothered by numbing behaviors. It happened so gradually that I didn’t even realize I was the one extinguishing them. I guess in some ways, that’s what depression feels like– a quiet erosion of the joys and potentials that might have been, replaced by the weight of inevitable suffering.

My mind is extraordinarily good at magnifying the negative, not just forgetting my potential, but convincing me that those potentials aren’t mine to claim.

The video reminded me of the hope those dystopian novels offered me in the darkest moments of my life. I remember wishing some reasonable adult would see my pain and swoop in to save me from it. The books I read helped me to realize that I didn’t need to wait for someone to come save me. The hero was inside me all along.

I clawed my way out of my childhood, and unfortunately, I did not make it out unscathed. Even now, after creating a family of my own, I question my worth. I wrestle with decisions, lose my way, and time and again, I lose myself. These realizations are not new– they are old truths that I seem fated to forget, suffer through, and rediscover, over and over.

I know there will come a time when these lessons feel foreign again, when I must relearn the same truths that the universe keeps presenting to me. And yet, despite the one step forward and several steps back rhythm, I trust that I will always find the path that points me toward these truths.

No matter what life throws my way, I’ve just got to keep going.

I hope you all keep going, too.

Until next time~