I saw a post on Instagram that said something like, “If you could speak to yourself ten years ago, but you only have 60 seconds, what would you say?”
Because I am terrible at remembering any kind of date, I opened my photo app and went to August 2016. What was I doing ten years ago?
Adorable little dork
Turns out August 22, 2016 was my first day of graduate school! Whew, glad I didn’t know how hard THAT was going to be. I would have crawled under my desk at school and refused to come out.
Life wasn’t perfect for me back then, but it was pretty ok! I was living in my parents’ basement, saving up for a house. It was my third year teaching high school English and I still loved it, mostly. I had fun going on road trips with friends and hiking in the mountains with Milo. I dated, went to concerts, tried to hit the gym a few days a week. Not bad at all.
If I could speak to that Kelly, the one who still has so much energy and health and hope, what would I say? Would I tell her what is coming? The freight train of shit that is about to run her over, back up, and run her over again? I dunno.
Actually, now that I read that again, of course I wouldn’t tell her anything about what’s coming. Why would I? Why terrify her when there is nothing she can do about it?
Instead, I’m thinking about what I needed to hear back then, the reassurance I was dying to hear:
You are doing a GREAT job. I’m so proud of you.
I know you feel insecure and like you don’t measure up. Guess what – everyone feels like that. You aren’t unique!
Lean on your family and don’t feel bad about it. They want to help.
You can handle anything and everything that comes. No, I mean it. You really can.
It’s going to be difficult, but you are well equipped with the support of incredible friends, family, coworkers, neighbors, and God.
You. Will. Not. Fail.
I love you so much, and I’m so impressed with everything you’ve already learned.
As I was getting ready for bed tonight, I thought about how funny it would be for me to make a “Get ready for bed with me!” video for Instagram:
“Come get ready for bed with me, a single, 42-year-old woman who is living in her parents’ basement!”
“First, I say good night to mom and dad who are still up watching TV! Thanks for letting me live in your basement, guys!”
“Next, I brush my teeth, take off all my jewelry [taking off one set of cheap earrings] and all my makeup [wiping off crusty remains of mascara].”
“Let’s do our skincare routine! [usually nothing, sometimes lotion].
“Ok, now time for my favorite products: duloxetine for OCD, progesterone for perimenopause, and Advil because everything hurts all the time!” [tapping fingernails on each medication bottle]
“Now, just in case I actually do fall asleep at some point tonight (teehee!), I better have my CPAP ready! Fill the water tank with distilled water, wipe the crusty drool out of the mask, and voila! Beauty rest, I’m coming for ya!”
“Now I take off all my clothes and get into bed in my underwear because I’m always so hot pajamas make me feel like I’m burning in Hell!”
“Ok, the only thing left is to watch zit-popping videos on my phone until my brain numbs out enough for me to fall asleep! 3 or 4 hours should do the trick!”
For the last couple years, I have been obsessed with a band called Viagra Boys. Yep, I’m a 42-year-old goody-goody Mormon woman who loves a band that sounds like it should only appeal to frat dudes and/or middle school kids. They are a post-punk rock group out of Sweden who have songs called things like, “Man Made of Meat,” “Troglodyte,” and my personal favorite, “Punk Rock Loser.”
Sebastian Murphy of Viagra Boys. I honestly don’t know why. I just do.
Anyway, when I heard Viagra Boys were coming to SLC, I was SOEXCITED. This would be the first punk show I’d been to in many years; I couldn’t wait to jump around in the crowd, buy an ugly concert tee, and scream along that I also, “don’t seem insane/but I fuckin’ am.” I bought tickets with my buddy, Daniel, and the night of the show I was ready with comfy sneakers and the requisite black ensemble. I carefully stowed my small purse under the passenger seat of Daniel’s truck; anyone who has been to a punk concert knows you do NOT bring a purse.
We rocked out for three hours – VB played all my favorite songs, the crowd was great, and frontman Sebastian Murphy was as funny and charming as you could hope. As we walked out of the venue, I was full of post-show adrenaline and practically skipped the several blocks to where we parked in a cold, dark lot with a few dozen other cars.
I opened the passenger door, and attempted to move my coat off the seat (I also didn’t want to drag my coat around at the show) but something sharp caught my hand. “Ouch!” I screeched, and inspected my skin, tiny droplets of blood popping up all across my palm.
When I looked to see what in the world could have done it, I noticed shattered glass all over the seat, across the floor, and upon further investigation, all around the ground outside of the door.
“Daniel!” I cried. “The window’s been broken!” Realization hit me and I dug my bleeding hand under the passenger seat – my purse was gone. Punk Rock Loser, indeed.
All that glass cost WAY more than the contents of my Target clearance-special purse.
The thief (thieves?) only smashed my window in Daniel’s truck – no other cars nearby were broken into. Daniel called the police and filed a report, but we knew nothing would come of it. I got some small satisfaction in the fact that whoever it was didn’t get much of anything – I don’t generally carry cash, and I had my credit card on me at the concert. They did take a $50 gift card to Target, which I assume they used to buy some Joanna Gaines home decor.
HOWEVER this small act of thievery has been the source of endless annoyance and time-wasting for me for the past several weeks. Here’s what the jackass got, and the cost + process to replace each item. I will go from least frustrating/expensive to most frustrating/expensive:
Kohls card I haven’t been to Kohls in years, so don’t care at all. Do department stores still even use cards like that? Was that card a relic?
Insurance card No cost to replace, also had another copy at home. Also I lose my insurance card all the time, somehow.
Pill organizer Maybe $10, about ten years old, too. Complete with half a dozen Advil, some Pepcid AC, and my last Klonopin. I am a little mad about the Klonopin.
Temple recommend No cost to replace, probably expired anyway. Feels weird to know someone has it, however.
Purse $20 gem from Target. I have a couple more at home. NBD.
Debit card No cost, easy to replace. I did panic for a hot minute when I saw that my purse was gone and hurriedly put a hold on the card so no one could use it. The thief was too dumb and/or slow to hurry and use it, thank goodness.
Wallet $10 from trip to Guatemala. Irreplaceable unless I go visit again and somehow track down the exact same wallet. Actually pretty sad about this one. It was really cool and made me think about the trip all the time. Idiota!
Driver license Ok, now we’re getting to the heavy-hitters. In order to replace my license, I had to go to the DMV website and fill out some forms and make an appointment to go in. Then I had to hunt through all my Crap until I found my Social Security card and Passport. Then I had to actually remember said Crap on the day of my appointment (I did not remember it). Then I had to reschedule the appointment and remember all the Crap and postpone a work meeting AND wash my hair because they were going to take a new photo. The photo is always distressing, but especially so now that I have gained a ton of weight and can’t figure out how to style my new haircut. I finally did all the things and then waited about 10 weeks for my new license. The picture is…fine.
Mail key I nearly gave up on this one before I even began. Do I call someone? Look something up online? Who would I even call? What would I Google? Thankfully, I was on a walk one day and passed our mailman as he was coming into the neighborhood. I asked him how to get a new mail key and he said I would have to go to the post office IN PERSON and fill out a form. This feels over the top to me. Go in person? To a place? The guy at the post office was nice, however, and told me to come back with a piece of mail with my name and address on it plus my ID plus $40. Sigh. I procrastinated and stressed over this list of steps for weeks before I finally did it. The same post office guy gave me 3 mail keys and told me to be careful with them in the future. I honestly felt chastened.
House key: This one was the most important to me, seeing as some weirdo was out there with my house keys AND my license containing my address. I had a hard time sleeping until I got the locks changed, imagining waking up in the middle of the night to a scary dude in my bedroom doorway, most likely brandishing a gun or knife or Samurai sword. My dad decided all my door knobs and locks were old and ugly, so took it upon himself to change everything out. Grand total was around a hundred bucks of parts, but who knows how much labor would have been if I had to pay someone to do it. I slept much better after those were done.
Car key: ugh, this was the wallet-killer. I wouldn’t have even bothered changing the locks in my car, but my parents were so worried that somehow the thief would know what kind of car I drove, find it, then use the car key they had stolen to get in and hide in the trunk until I got in and then they would murder me. I may be exaggerating that a bit, but that was the general idea. It was 500 friggin’ bucks to get it rekeyed, which is absolute highway robbery.
As I dealt with this ADHD nightmare, I kept thinking, what should I have done differently? Taken my purse with me? Left it at home? Looked around the parking lot for signs of car-window-smashers?
But if you know me, you know that I lose my purse (or keys, headphones, work badge, etc) at least once a week. This was bound to happen at some point, so instead of kicking myself for all the trouble it put me through, I can just be grateful that the thief didn’t get anything great AND I got to see Sebastian Murphy dance and scream about bog bodies for a couple glorious hours.
It’s 10:30 in the morning on Saturday. I’m sitting in a booth at a McDonalds near my parents’s house, slowly making my way through a bacon egg and cheese bagel with a hash brown on the side. Obviously the most important part of this meal is the Diet Coke.
It’s surprisingly crowded – moms with kids, little families, a couple old guys who look like they could be friends with my dad. There is an employee washing the windows and having a loud conversation over his AirPods.
I’m not feeling great this morning. I forgot to get my Klonopin refilled so I didn’t sleep basically all night. Tossed and turned, some light snoozing, lots of catastrophic intrusive thoughts.
I wonder if this is what a hangover feels like. My eyes don’t want to stay open, the world is slightly fuzzy. I’m not in pain yet, but lack of sleep generally triggers big time fibro pain, so I have that to look forward to.
I was just thinking about when was the last time I was really happy. Like, not perfectly happy with everything in life but doing ok. I think it was 2021; I still enjoyed my job, for the most part. My health was great – I slept like a baby, I could run 3 miles easy-peasy, I was literally 100 lbs lighter, the thinnest I have ever been as an adult. I was having a ton of fun dating Rusty, going on adventures together. I loved my house and had plenty of energy to keep it clean. My friends and I went on roadtrips to hike in national parks and bigger trips to Hawaii. My mental health wasn’t perfect but the little incidents were just occasional annoyances.
Who is she??
I wonder if I’ll ever be her again. It feels as impossible as winning the Boston Marathon or knowing a single answer to a Jeopardy question.
I recently saw a video on Instagram of a woman slowly, methodically cleaning out a hoarder home. The bedroom was the subject of this particular video, and whew, it was rough. The floor was completely covered in at least a foot-deep layer of clothes, shoes, papers, and unidentifiable objects. Everything was dusty and dirty and crumpled. You couldn’t see out of the windows, they were so covered in grime.
I feel like that room. My joy and peace is buried under layer after layer of dusty memories, broken hopes, chaotic hormones and emotions. A healthy body is somewhere beneath all the pain and terrible lifestyle of eating junk and never exercising. The thing is, I don’t have the energy or clarity to try digging into that mess again. Where do I start? How do I do it? I’ve tried so many things in the past three years but I’ve never felt worse.
Life coaching with Sal
OCD outpatient treatment
Therapy with Haley
DPDR coaching with Jordan
Therapy with Em
ADHD testing and medication
Dietician
Massage
Podcasts, books, apps, etc
I don’t blame anyone for their program or book not helping me. I actually think every single thing I’ve tried was smart and useful, based on good science and even better intentions. I simply couldn’t execute what they advised. And now, exhausted and discouraged, I definitely can’t do the things everyone keeps telling me to do.
What is wrong with me?
What should I do?
I have no idea. So I’m going to drink this delicious Diet Coke, go clean TeKa’s tank, and not think beyond the next 30 minutes.
Plenty of people will tell you that at age 18, you are an official adult. You can vote, you can join the military. If you’reMacaulay Culkin or my very mature high school friend, Rebecca, you can get married.
When I was 18, I had kissed exactly three boys. I had never made myself a doctor appointment. My dad did my taxes, my mom still gave me gas money. I was afraid of driving alone at night.
Was I an adult at 18? Ha. I know 12 year olds now who are more mature and worldly than I was when I graduated high school. Maybe YOU were an adult at 18, but I had just gotten my braces off.
Ok, then how about age 21? You can drink, you can get into clubs, you will definitely be tried as an adult if you commit a felony. By this age I was cooking and cleaning for myself, paying my own rent in a crappy apartment, working my arse off in college, and attempting to make big decisions about my future. But I still didn’t feel like a grown up. Grown ups had careers, houses, a car they paid for themselves. They were married, had kids and dogs. I was just a little baby with student loans and a Mercury Sable I kinda stole from my parents. Everything I wore was from American Eagle. I could not imagine that real adults would wear American Eagle.
The last age I hear about is 25. For some reason, we have collectively decided that being able to rent a car is the last stop in the road to adulthood. And ok, the first time I rented a car, I must admit I had never felt more responsible and independent. Someone let me borrow a whole-ass CAR? That is wild. I was so worried and careful. I drove below the speed limit the entire time.
I am now 42 years old. In May, it will be TWENTY YEARS since I graduated with my bachelors degree. At 22, I really didn’t know what the future held. I graduated with an English degree, but was unsure what I was going to do with it. Work in a library? Write? Go to some kind of graduate school? I had just broken up with my handsome college boyfriend, so feeling extra lost and confused, I retreated to my parents’ house and my comforting childhood bedroom.
Welp, after 20 years I feel MUCH more confused and lost as to my path in life, by a magnitude of 500,000. I have wandered: had lots of jobs, dated a whole bunch of dudes, moved to a few different states, but always found myself back here in Utah. And guess where I’m living right now? If you guessed my mom’s basement you are right, but I’m a little offended that you went there immediately.
I have some theories as to why I have never been able to really find my place in life, but at the top of the list is this: I am not good at being an adult.
KelCor Grows Up 