and somehow my life purpose got compromised…

These past few days (weeks? months?) I’ve noticed something different about myself, my life, my reaction to things, like my joie de vivre is or has been compromised. If we measure the “something different” in days, that shift is directly in proportion to the lessening number of hours until my 30th birthday *gasp*. We can probably still blame my birthday if we’re talking weeks.

wrong.

And for months, nearly a year really, I’ve felt something different. An unpinnable, unidentifiable, nondescript, nagging itch in the recesses of my spirit. Not knowing what to attribute it to, I blamed the ritual of marriage my partner and I delved into. That’s a HUGE life change, so of course my psyche would react to this transition in ways that I could never imagine.

wrong.

On top of that, my spouse and I made Upstate Manhattan our home. For the first time since I bummed on Lola‘s couch during bar review, I was NOT living in Harlem. This is clearly the impetus of my nagging itch. surely.

wrong again.

I probably need to pray more. And I haven’t been playing flag football like usual, no heavy breathing dancing at S.O.B.s, no workout sessions with my homie Rico. This is it. I’m sure it is.

WRONG!

Which brings me to this morning. At 7am today, as I languished in bed, melting myself into the sheets, I fervently wished these timid ass rain drops would just whip into a typhoon already so I would have no excuse to ever leave the bed. Once I realized what I was doing, my birth mother came to mind. I remembered the first day she wouldn’t leave her bed. And the second day. And the third. And how my first time seeing her move was 5 days later when she finally needed to use the bathroom. She crawled into herself and I never saw the person I knew again, even 18 years later.

Not wanting to be her or that revolted me out of bed.

Meanwhile, my husband, who somehow manages to wake up at 7am no matter how late he went to bed (yes, I’m jealous) was in our office being chipper and productive (yes, I’m hating). He cheered when he heard my footsteps. The immense joy at hearing his voice was tempered by the nondescript itch I’ve really only noticed recently, but have felt like it’s been sluicing through me for MONTHS. But I ignore it and throw myself in my favorite activities, speaking to, spending time with, enjoying my brilliant beautiful spouse. And as conversation naturally flows from life hopes and dreams to chores and weekend plans, by sheer habit, I bring up work. Suddenly,  I choke on my words. The very idea of being in the office knifed through me.

Tears at times have all the weight of speech. – Ovid

I cried and finally came to terms with the fact that I am deeply unsatisfied with my job. I’ve come to realize that loving my job was an essential part of my identity, and to suddenly be unsatisfied is just… I can’t find the word. I am just grateful I haven’t gotten to a point of hating my job. And for that, I’m grateful.

So what happens now?

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