I measure time differently now. — I am mother. I am a wife. I am 40 years old. I am sober 14 years. I am an adjunct professor. I am a theatre director. I am a research scholar. I am a writer. I am . . .
Back in the day, frantic seconds used to define my days. But in “this something slower,” this matured era of my life, minutes stretch, hours linger, days settle.
And yet, I can feel the ticking of a clock beneath my skin. It is something still remains restless inside. In this stillness, I struggle to want to notice myself.
There was a time when I lived in acceleration, when everything I did seemed to burn at the edges. Then, seconds mattered because they held possibility, drama, excitement, adrenaline, maybe another chance, another escape, another way to avoid the desperate reality of being alone with myself.
I didn’t know how to sit still. You can ask my wife — it has gotten better, but it takes a lot for me to “just be.”
For most people, stillness is a gift. But for me, I can still interpret stillness as absence, like some sort of erasure. And like any good addict does, even in sobriety, I find ways to fill it.
Thankfully, the days of blackouts, car accidents, and waking up in random places are long over. But that hole in the soul, I can still feel the urge to fill it…
