Existential Crisis

A few weeks ago, I was walking one of my dogs. It was bitterly cold and no matter which direction we walked it seemed like the wind, which was gusting at about 25 miles per hour, was in our faces the entire time. Sophie’s ears were tucked back against her head as she plugged sturdily along, impervious to the cold. My shoulders were hunched against winter and my head, wrapped snugly in two hats and the hood of my long down coat, was home to so many “Fuck this fucking winter” thoughts that I was taken aback when this thought chimed in, “Is this all there is?” followed quickly by, “Then what’s the point?”

I had been feeling swamped at work. I was trying to cram my normal clients in at my space before I would head to the spa for my newly expanded hours, and somehow fit in training for my next marathon and a little bit of time for my dogs. I feel like my house is actually my dogs’ house. They are in it a helluva lot more than I am. I suppose I should be grateful that they let me sleep in what used to be considered my bed. Each day, I was feeling more and more out of sorts. I don’t know if any of my current cancer treatment leads to this feeling. I just knew that I had to take a deep look inside my life and figure out how to make some small changes that would leave me feeling less frazzled and more peaceful.

One of the good things about being a massage therapist is that the one person you are in a room with almost always wants you to be silent. There are a few exceptions – mainly at my own space – and I love these clients – who are often just great friends who like to receive massage. So, I was able to really spend some time kneading muscles and mulling over my own plight. I say plight with some degree of self-mocking. I am pretty damn lucky to be alive. We all are. But, it was weighing on me. I felt like I was on a hamster wheel, spinning and spinning and never getting anywhere.

What was the point? I couldn’t see it then and I still don’t. I don’t see what the point is of working so very much that I don’t have time for my friends. I certainly didn’t go through last year’s fight/struggle/battle/whatever with cancer to just work and work. I’m not writing fiction. I’m not painting. I’m not traveling (enough). I’m not getting laid or dating. I work and work and work and running was starting to feel like work, too.

At work one Sunday night, I mentioned this to a few of my friends. Caroline got it. She understood. She is an old soul. I think we have been friends before, in other lifetimes. I haven’t had the time to talk with other friends or my mom about this. I know that my close friends understand what I’m going through. At least, I hope they do. I’m fairly sure we’ve all had an existential crisis at some point or another – possibly many points.

To return to my walk with Sophie, it just bogged me down. I know winters here in Wisconsin have a way of dragging on and on and make everything seem bleak and hopeless. I can’t blame it on the winter, though. If I do that, I minimize my needs and my role in contributing to the hamster wheel that is my life. I work primarily in the evenings which makes dating, if not impossible, pretty difficult. One thing I would like to do is work Saturday mornings instead of Saturday nights. Over time this will happen. I spent quite a few massages over the next week or so lost in thought, grateful for the opportunity to think and multitask (something I never liked doing although I always said I was good at it during job interviews).

I have made changes in how I schedule at my space and it has helped. I still need to make a couple of more changes so that I actually have a day off more than once a month without feeling like I have to leave the state to do it. Saying no has never been easy for me. Last year, while I was dealing with cancer, I got to practice. Ginger and I would joke about it, laughing about playing the cancer card. But, now that I’m feeling better and have no visible signs of having had cancer other than a scar that looks like someone’s bad idea of a lopsided smile where I used to have a breast – I have to reeducate myself on the power of NO.

While mulling over this post, I have been poking around existential crisis stuff on the internet. It is amazing to me how quickly you can find information thanks to Al Gore and his internet invention (this is sarcasm). So, in case you don’t know and don’t want to look it up yourself, this is the definition according to Wikipedia: An existential crisis is a moment at which an individual questions the very foundations of their life: whether their life has any meaning, purpose, or value. And, further: An existential crisis is often provoked by a significant event in the person’s life — psychological trauma, marriage, separation, major loss, the death of a loved one, a life-threatening experience, a new love partner, psychoactive drug use, adult children leaving home, reaching a personally-significant age (turning 16, 40, etc.), etc.

Also, in this same entry it said that a dose of acetaminophen can help relieve existential anxiety. Funny, all the headaches I have had and have never read that as one of the possible cures when I was reading the Tylenol labels. Headache, fever, existential crisis. Of course, if you take too much, you can have liver damage. Maybe Tylenol is only for short-term existential crises.

I was looking for quotes about existentialism and existential crises. There are plenty. This one by John Malkovich is funny. “I brought my first fall/winter line to New York, and it was confiscated by U.S. Customs. They asked, ‘What is the value of this?’ I said, ‘I’m not so good with existential questions.’ So, unless the customs officer was Herman Melville, he/she probably didn’t get the greater literary/philosophical implication.

Another course to put me on track was to sign up for a writing workshop this summer in Michigan. I registered for a 5-day memoir workshop at Interlochen. I don’t know if I am more excited about the workshop or the queen-sized bed I will have to myself.

Perhaps I have made light of this crisis. It is easy now that it isn’t pressing me down and I have made steps to alleviate it. I still feel like I’m not quite where I want to be. I know I want more in my life than just work, work, work. I’m not sure if running marathons in all 50 states is still a goal. Currently, running feels like something I have to do rather than want to do. That is probably because my body is creaky and I’m not as fast as I was pre-cancer. As I improve my times, I, no doubt, will feel more joy. One of the things that running has revealed for me is that I am pretty competitive. The joy will come back when my joints stop feeling like they are 80 years old.

I need/want to spend more time writing. One of the perks of that is it means I also spend more time at home. I love my nest and like being here with the dogs. They are calmer and so am I if I get to spend time at home.