This column discusses themes of mental health struggles, relationship challenges, and personal growth. Reader discretion is advised.

As we observe Mental Health Awareness Month, I embarked on a series of personal columns detailing my journey toward improved mental well-being.

In a little under two months, I will be a forty-five year old writer engaged to the most patient man on the planet, with four adult children who had the audacity to grow up, five grandchildren that bring absolute joy to my life, and with a very long list of things my brain refuses to let me finish. 

In 2018, I effectively nuked my own life through a series of bad choices that left me unemployed, broke, and spiraling. Lucky for me, or unlucky as you may look at it, I have reserved, VIP seating at Rock Bottom. It wasn’t the first, second, or even third time I’d managed to implode the life I’d built for myself. Between my own actions, a couple of house fires (not started by me), and perpetual bad luck, I’ve found myself habitually starting over with next to nothing. 

Add in a pandemic, and my mental health, which barely functioned on a good day, and you get a one way ticket to Rock Bottom. Not ready to face the demons in my head, I read a self-help book and kept it moving. By the time 2020 rolled around, I’d reached a full crisis point with an epic display of self-sabotage that still makes me cringe when I think about it. I was beyond broken and I knew it.

My children had moved out and my relationship had ended. I didn’t know how to be alone. Since birth I was an appendage of someone else such as my parent’s daughter, my sister’s sibling, my children’s mother, and someone’s girlfriend. During this brief voyage into solitude, I learned a few things. 

I hate cooking. I don’t like it even a little bit. I had to cook every day for twenty plus years for four people who would rather have had fast food. I don’t like to have the radio on when I drive a car. I’m naturally quiet, and if left to my own devices, I can go days without speaking. Thankfully, the solitude didn’t last very long.

My son moved back in in order to attend the local community college and my relationship righted itself after I finally addressed the elephant in the room. It took time, but eventually I learned to be an individual and a mother, to be a person and a partner. It’s easy to lose ourselves in the lives of others, but at some point, we have to come back to ourselves. I just lost my way for a few years. Or twenty.

The middle of your life is a weird place to be. I don’t have very many regrets about the life that I’ve led, though I do wish I had been better prepared for it. With age came wisdom, insight, and a healthy respect for the repercussions of my actions. 

I have no idea what tomorrow will bring, or the next forty-five years, but I know who I will finally prioritize between now and then. 

It’s my turn to be important.