My Little Life
Reflections on where I am now, how I got here, contentedness with it all
The older that I’ve gotten, the more that I realize that I am happy with my little life. I am not a very materialistic person, so I never had desire for a lot of expensive and fancy stuff (my upbringing didn’t make that possible, either). I also grew up with a parent who was a hoarder, and later in life, I saw both my brother and my mother accumulate ‘stuff’ that would take over their dwellings, put them in debt, and be disorganized chaos. I have also witnessed this in behaviors of other friends, who (more positively try to) deem themselves ‘collectors’ over hoarders. But they buy and accumulate a lot of stuff. It gives them joy, purpose, makes their homes feel safe and home-y. We all have our things but I have no desire to live that way.
There’s no judgment, we all have our things we spend money on, that we don’t need. Mine are there, they are just different—I usually choose the experiences of dining out and traveling.
But the point is, my life is ostensibly quite simple now. I moved across the country three times with only my car load of my stuff. And I like it that way, traveling light. Having little crap. (Sometimes even what I do have annoys me—why do I need this much STUFF!?!?)
I consider this, when I think back to what I thought my life would be, years ago, when I was a child. I didn’t think I would have such little ‘stuff’. I think there was a part of me—in my younger years—that longed for London stage actress status recognition, and celebrity acknowledgment, from my NY Times best-selling books.
While I still hope to, plan to, will write and publish books—my ideas of what I want from life, has been revised and greatly simplified.
I have seen friends have to address house maintenance issues in homes ranging from small, simple homes to larger, family bedroom homes and I am glad I don’t spend my money and weekends that way.
I like my little life. In the book, We Are the Luckiest, McKowen asks a peer, who was further along in her sober journey, whether or not she is happy with life, and she replies that she has a good little life, that she is content with. I feel the same.
I used to worry that I would not have much of an imprint on the world, though of course, that’s all in the rubric or lens you use to evaluate that with... Capitalism lies to us that we must always labor and that our value is in our wealth, status, assets, etc.
I used to think that if I didn’t have children or own a home, get married and have a successful relationship, then I would not be “successful,” or, more aptly, deemed as such.
Ahh, what a tremendously subjective term “successful” is.
What metric or system of measurement do you use in this—the success of life?
I realize that I have everything I have ever worked for—my terminal degree, work that I enjoy that affords a nice life, which allows me to write and read a lot, think and teach others to think, form relationships and make a difference, a dependable and cost efficient car, a lovely and beautiful historic residence, time off to travel and flexibility to make relationships and have coffee and learn from people, share stories with. That’s what I wanted in life.
But I think what I mostly have, are relationships that mean much more to me than I ever realized, would be at the center of my life—my friends, my cultivated, chosen family.
And, most importantly: I [finally] have myself.
This morning, as I drank my coffee and lounged about, on this rainy, overcast Saturday morning, I realized something, and I smiled:
A few months ago when I was struggling and went into therapy, I confessed fears that I would become like my parents, to my therapist. Despite oh-so much evidence to the contrary, that I am in so many ways NOT like them, the shame I felt about their deaths and how they lived their lives, the grief that I had not processed, identifying with them to hold on to them and my relationships with them, I have since questioned it all— I took stock of all that, which I have worked through and now realize—
At the time, I voiced fears of becoming them. (When you are the black sheep or, rather, the [only] one desperately trying to live a healthier life and to break intergenerational traumas, you do have to wonder if you’re irredeemably tarnished, cursed, or hopelessly intertwined by blood-relation with these very dysfunctional individuals).
I also feared being alone with no partner, children, nuclear family, or much extended family. I used to think I was sad for lacking a life partner and a child, or children. But what I realize now is that I did not yet have secure attachment to myself and I had not yet undergone somatic healing to free the trauma and wounds imprinted on my body.
The more I have healed, the happier I am with being alone. The less tolerant I am of male ego and bullshittery. The more I think about having kids, and all that that would entail, I cringe, oh so very thankful that I don’t.
I smiled to myself today, sipping my strong coffee, and thought—
I once realized that the emotional inheritance I inherited from my mama was that of fear of aloneness and abandonment, as she had, from her mother, sister, and my father. Then that compounded, with me, because all of my family died.
But the greatest lie is that they did not abandon me, but that I did not learn self and therefore, at some point, I abandoned myself.
And that is far, far worse to abandon yourself. My mother did that.
I have also realized this—the paradox of it all, is that, while I am “alone” by many standards of society and others, to mean—single and childless at forty, I am finally very very happy in that:
I am my mother’s legacy, and I have the life that she wanted but could never have and exactly what she wanted for me—
I am autonomous, independent, solvent—I support myself, and I treat myself—to yoga memberships and travel/vacations to the ocean, sushi and Aveda hair coloring.
And I am healthy, and constantly working on healing, to get even better.
I have learned from my mother’s experience, and my own, through my healing and therapy and growth—
When I finally learned that I am my own person, I look inward now for the rest and comfort, I no longer look outside myself.
I know I have my people when/if I need them. But I don’t feel desperate to latch on to others, even my friends, to not feel so disconnected.
But the truth is—that was because I was disconnected from myself, traumatized, grief-stricken, and the effect of which eased me into situations where I put up with men for far too long that (as a good friend said to me the other day) others were surprised I “even gave the time of day to…”
If I had had carried my babies to term, fathered by a narcissist, my life would be so different. I would be. I wouldn’t have been able to free myself from him, connected for life through our offspring, and I wouldn’t have been able to get more somatic healing and autonomy, in moving away, and reaching a point in my career, place and work, that I am so happy with.
I wouldn’t have poured myself into learning about grief and trauma, intergenerational trauma and wounds, and all the many, many methods that have contributed so much to my own healing journey.
The other day, I was listening to a podcast and a women, Ruby Warrington, who wrote a book that I have ordered and intend on reading, about childless women, said this, and it really gave me pause—something along the effect of—
“In some families, the trauma is just so great, that it can’t sustain putting forth another generation.” Or, perhaps, another way to think about it—you don’t want to burden that next generation with that emotional inheritance before you address those wounds and work on your healing and that of the generations before you, the trauma passed on down to you.
That really spoke to my heart and soul. That is my life story.
My life is simple, but I have addressed my emotional inheritance and my intergenerational trauma, as well as my own personal, lived, embodied experiences with trauma, so, well then, I think—
I have succeeded.
I am a success.
