What Happened to Eden

Ah yes, the part of the story where the put-upon protagonist finds her footing and becomes a Boss Bitch.

No, this story is nonfiction. We are here to discuss how my part time hobby became a full blown, all encompassing job.

I have always been a nervous person. Overthinking was just thinking, to me. Anxiety is good – it keeps you alive. If you aren’t worried about the things that could happen, you won’t be prepared when they do. It makes you second guess your decisions in case you’re being rash or haven’t considered possible negative consequences. But it also makes you crazy.

I wanted so badly to go with the flow. Instead, I obsessed about seeming like I was going with the flow, when I spent every waking moment trying to determine the direction and speed of the flow. I’d say things like everything happens for a reason and we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, all the while analyzing my actions and the actions of those around me until my brain was a toxic soup of negative thoughts.

I worried less about my now ex-husband trying to take my kids away, but I still had concerns about co-parenting. Any time I’d bring up a scheduling situation or issue with a kid he would be so cold and curt with me, which would make me feel small and stupid until the conversation ended and I remembered he had no right to be rude to me. We were divorced and sharing custody because he’d fucked around for eighteen months and I’d finally found out. How dare he act like I was somehow to blame for all this mess?

I worried about my kids starting school in the middle of the year and struggling to make friends. They felt like no one had divorced parents except them, which obviously wasn’t true, but it was fresh for them and felt isolating. They missed their dad and I had to bottle everything I actually felt about him to comfort their tender hearts. Yes, Dad was fun and wonderful and we could facetime him any day we wanted now until we saw him again. Sure, it was sad we weren’t together anymore, but happy people make happy parents, and if Daddy’s new girlfriend made him happy, he’d be an even better dad than before!

I should have won an Oscar for those performances.

I worried about money and finding a job. I had three kids whose school hours did not reflect work day hours and a colossal gap in my resume. I had no marketable skills and struggled with even the simplest technology. Even thinking about working had my heart pounding and tears running down my face. I didn’t want to take a job just to have a job, it wasn’t worth it. The last two jobs I had coincided with major autoimmune flares and ended up in the hospital. Something about stress or lack of rest? I didn’t want to find out all over again for the same reason I had no idea what job I could manage – I had three kids to take care of. I didn’t have time to get terribly ill and end up in the hospital.

My family would suggest jobs I could do, but they were time sucks. I’d need a new wardrobe and childcare and I’d lose money every single day I worked. Why on earth would I bother? Blow money on clothes, give my entire paycheck to childcare, and then end up in the hospital and lose my job. Not a solid plan.

I worried I was relationshipping wrong. And I’m positive I was. I tried not to obsess about whether or not I was being lied to or actively cheated on. I told myself I didn’t care, I wasn’t attached and would survive if The Cop turned out to be a horrible asshole. It was at least partly true. I would survive, and I would not take a break to heal myself, I would instead immediately get back on dating apps and find a new distraction. Being busy was better than being sad. But I did care. I worried what it would do to my already fragile sense of self if I was cheated on immediately after being cheated on.

So instead of being The Relationship Girl, who I have always been, I was the No Labels Girl. I was totally fine with a casual connection. Sure, I wasn’t dating anyone else, but I wasn’t ready for anything serious anyway, so I didn’t care if I kept him mostly a secret or referred to him as “a guy I’m dating.” I only wanted to see him when I was at my best, because I knew my best was other women’s worst. I didn’t do elaborate makeup or cute outfits, so if we were going to meet up I wanted to at least be freshly showered and wearing concealer and mascara, even if it was just a late night hookup when my kids were away.

Long term relationship people have seen everything, and I didn’t want that yet. Or maybe ever. I still struggled with the in-between time. If we weren’t having sex, sharing a meal, or watching a movie, I felt like maybe he should leave. I enjoyed his company every minute I was with him, but the dead air seemed too familiar. Should we be staring at our phones in bed together between rounds? I didn’t want that. It would be exhausting to fill the silence with deep talk, but zoning out without touching seemed like a waste.

It felt like work because I made it into work. I was deeply uncomfortable with myself and felt the need to wear makeup to bed even though it wrecked my skin and stay in cute lingerie or slips so I didn’t seem too frumpy and wife-like. I didn’t eat anything from the mile-long list of foods that sometimes messed with my stomach because I wanted to prolong that surprise as long as I could. In my mind, anything married people did was bad. I didn’t want to lay around doing nothing. That wasn’t a date. We didn’t need to go out or spend money, but we should have been doing something, right? I didn’t want him to go, but I also wasn’t sure what to do with my hands, with my feet, with my face, so I didn’t look bored or annoyed or flabby or old or saggy or sleepy or nervous as fuck. I wanted him to go so I could let it all go for a minute.

But then he’d leave and I’d wonder if it was because he had to or because of me. Was I sending out go away vibes? Was be bored? Was he rethinking pausing his apps to stay with me? Or maybe getting women to stop dating other men was just a play to make sure any woman he wanted to have sex with was available when he decided it was her turn. I knew he’d dated women significantly hotter and more sexually adventurous and it bothered me a lot. Not that he’d been with other women, but that he was with me. Why was he with me? I didn’t see the appeal, frankly, and that made me even more suspicious.

I knew I couldn’t sustain this level of constant fear. I wasn’t sleeping, my eating habits were all over the place, I was short with my kids, needed constant attention from people via text to feel validated and acknowledged, and would zone out and disassociate to power down from all this swirling garbage in my head. I accomplished next to nothing, life-wise. My kids were fed and safe and made it to school every day, and I replied to every text and date offer from The Cop, but I was otherwise in a daze. I was fine until I thought of something to worry about, and then I was lost to the brain soup.

The thing about generalized anxiety is that I could apply it to anything. It used to be more focused on my kids and my health, but I had opened up a Pandora’s Box of worry in recent months and everything was a potential catastrophe. It took every ounce of sanity I had to remind myself that I had worried my marriage was fragile, and I had worried my husband would cheat, and I had done a lot to try and prevent those things from happening, and they had happened anyway. Worry didn’t stop other people from making choices that affected me. I could be my very best self and The Cop could still leave or lie or cheat. And I would have to be okay with that.

It was too exhausting to try and be someone I wasn’t. It was exhausting just being myself. I’d have to just go with the flow, to the best of my ability.