Panic! In The Cat Food Aisle

A few years ago, whenever I heard stories about abuse, I'd think, 'Why is the woman staying? Why is she putting up with it. I wouldn't stand for it. I would be strong enough to leave.' The thing is, you think you'll never be that girl, but then you wake up one morning, terrified to make too much noise or in a panic because you think you might have left your towel on the bathroom floor. You are that girl. You're living a life of madness without even knowing it. Sometimes you can't see the mistreatment until you're out of it.

And I'm out of it. I moved myself, my boys, and our little trailer of stuff across the country. I found a job. I found an apartment. I found freedom from the constraints of control. But other weights are still there. Weights that took years to place on my shoulders, ounce by ounce, pound by pound, so slow that I couldn't feel it until it immobilized me.

 

Control works its way into your soul. It eats away until you don't remember who you once were. You question your every move because you're still waiting for someone to come tell you that you're doing everything wrong. I find myself still doing things "the way I'm supposed to", and suddenly I realize I can wash the dishes however the F I want. In fact, I don't have to wash them at all. They can sit in the sink for a week and no one can tell me any different. Like today, I had the sudden epiphany that I can take off the stupid seat covers in my car that I hate. I never wanted them to begin with, and now they are in the dumpster behind our apartment. I might have even ripped them to shreds.

As you all know, I'm in the process of rebuilding. During the time the boys were away from me, I had a lot of time to myself. I sat by the pool. I read. I exercised. I ate lunch alone. I painted my nails. I walked on the beach. I actually got to write like a writer. I know who I am, and I love myself, but then those weights start stacking up again. Self-doubt will always be louder than confidence. Just when I start to feel good about myself, I'm reminded that I'm a bumbling idiot.

Like the other day, I was at a store and thought I saw a cute guy I went to high school with (it wasn't him). I nearly had a panic attack. Seriously, I almost died in the cat food aisle. And why? I was worried that I would stutter or the guy wouldn't remember me or he would remember and wonder why the heck I thought I was cool enough to talk to him. This is what happens when, for the last several years, you are told you aren't good enough. Eventually you believe it. You keep quiet. You keep the peace because living in the delusion is easier than dealing with reality.

Rome wasn't built in a day. Neither was Lauren. The problem is that I'm kind of obsessed with personal perfection, though I know I'll never get there. Perfection is what I think I need for people to like me, but Maragreg Moore reminds me that the boy who gave me heart palpitations farts and picks his nose. I also need to remember that perfection is unattainable, and I am enough, even in this broken state. I'm no hero. I put my bra on one boob at a time, just like any other woman.

I have flaws and that's why you like me. It's why I like myself. I do. I promise. I've just been repressed for far too long. This will be The Year of Lauren. I will be awesome. I will get my book published. I will make others nervous to talk to me because I will have a radiant confidence that will be envied by Kanye West. But I won't be a jerk. I will be kind of others. I will love myself. I will be okay.