I drove through my hometown recently. The Black Crowes’ new album was playing. I had just got done running an errand in the neighboring town. I was still in my work clothes. I hadn’t expected my GPS to route me through the small town of 1,500 people, and I didn’t expect the feelings I had while I did it.
I’m not a nostalgia chaser. I try not to live in the past or indulge it too often because I become “homesick”, per se, of a time I used to live in, a person I used to be, a place I used to live. It hurts to feel that sort of sickening in your stomach that can’t be alleviated because the only true cure is to revisit that moment and feel it over again in the flesh.
Despite my aversion to nostalgia, I was hit with a strong wave of it as I drove through Chapel Hill, Tennessee. It was still the same in many ways–advertising the tractor pull, a few mom and pop shops amongst the name-brand franchises, vinyl-paneled houses that remind me of 2004 sandwiched between clumps of much older, country-style houses. But it was different, too. Dozens of more stores and businesses, but the same people live around, it seemed. Old folks in old clothes with old routines. They probably were born and raised there. They’ll likely die there, too. I don’t know who chooses to move there, but like my family when I was little, it’s probably because it’s cheap.
I actually moved there because my dad was a pastor. I didn’t know what that meant at age 5, but I grew up in church, essentially, and spent a lot of time with the people there up until 2008. I drove past that church. It has a new fluorescent sign. There were more buildings around it. I nearly didn’t recognize it, aside from the outside looking exactly the same. That vinyl-paneling that we put on a few years after we moved there. I felt so many different emotions and images crashing my brain, nearly short-circuiting my memory. I didn’t know which thought or feeling to chase.
Playing outside for what seemed like hours after service, coming up with crazy schemes (“We should build our OWN bus for traveling!”), getting scolded for scuffing my shoes or messing up my hairdo, chasing the boys, gossiping with my best friend, teasing my brothers, sitting in my parents’ van listening to the Top 40 on Sundays. There was a big oak tree out in the back yard and a giant slope to roll down. We built a shed out in the back, too, but it was mostly for the riding mower. The old parsonage nearby that we tore down is where I stepped on a nail. I still remembered how it smelled inside. We had a lot of potlucks at church, which was good, because I was always hungry.
What do these disjointed memories mean? Effective to my current life and situation, virtually nothing. However, my experiences throughout childhood, including these seemingly inane details shared here, helped shape my personality, my mind, and my views of the world. Everything in our lives, for better or worse, impress upon us different lessons or truths.
I, for one, though don’t assign special meaning to memories just because I associate them with a feeling. Because a memory makes me feel nice or good in of itself is not valuable to me. I cannot recreate the situation in those exact circumstances, so it is in vain for me to feel attached to it for too long.
What it really comes down to though is that I am almost 30. The little girl who grew up playing by that oak tree would not have imagined the life I had now. She may be sad for me, or confused. She may vow to never become like me. I remember pitying certain people as I grew older because I didn’t want to settle; I didn’t want to “be like them”. Complacent, unchallenged, lazy.
Now I find myself with a college degree, pursuing a career that has been difficult to sustain. I have no goals that feel reachable due to waning energy, high levels of fatigue and chronic pain, as well as recurring mood issues/depression. Sometimes I feel like I’m sinking. Sometimes I feel like I’m climbing a mountain and having a grand time doing it. Other times, the mountain is in sight, but it looks more like a chore, than a fun challenge. I’m afraid this latter mentality is one I’ll die with.
How foolish for me, a 29-year-old, to feel that my life is basically over! Ah, I’ve done everything I’m capable of. Might as well die.
Except I’m obviously not going to do that. I do get tired of this same song and dance. The pattern of highs and lows. Not being able to sustain a normal, or at least balanced, life. Coping with a mental illness isn’t like following some linear path of treatment or recovery. It’s messy and frenetic and disordered. Some great days, then mediocre days, then awful days, then worse days, then a good day, a second good day, a bunch of meh days, and then a great day. Repeat ad nauseum, ad infinitum.
I get so sick of it, honestly. Like just sick to death of it. I haven’t updated this blog regularly because I don’t have solutions. I don’t have anything blog-worthy to share and to inspire. And what would be the point of wallowing, self-pitying, depressing entries with no solution or inspiration for other sufferers? That’s part of my problem with the blog and myself in general: I’m losing my direction. I keep falling into this same rut and I’m having trouble staying out.
Nostalgia makes me yearn for the days when this stuff wasn’t an issue yet. I don’t like remembering those days because I don’t know how to be like that anymore.
I don’t have an inspiring answer or motivational send-off for those who maybe feel similarly. But I will give this advice: don’t stop trying. There’s always a next step. You may not fix all of your problems or cure your mental illness, but focus on your next step. That’s what I’m doing. I can’t recreate my childhood memories or feel that same glee and freedom, but my life isn’t over. There’s still many years to come. So what’s next?
I encourage you to ask yourself the same thing.