Make Me Hate You(70)
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Me: So, what suggestions do you give to any of our listeners who are wanting to make that change in their life, who are wanting to wake up, so to speak, and take hold of their life?
Tara: sighs Well, I think there are a lot of ways to work toward it, but I’ll suggest where to start. The first step, in my eyes, is to sit down with a magnifying glass and really examine your life. What is your day-to-day routine? What do you do for fun? What do you do for a living, and why, and how does that make you feel? Then, once it’s all written down in front of you, just highlight the things that you love, that make you feel good, and leave anything that makes you feel some type of way un-highlighted.
Me: On my list, 2AM Instagram shopping would be one I’d leave un-highlighted.
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Tara: Mine would be feeding into my toxic friendships.
Me: whistles That’s a conversation for another podcast.
Tara: Right? But seriously, I think if we all do this, just take a pulse check on our life from time to time, we can really evaluate what matters to us, and start to step away from what doesn’t. Focus on building habits that support who you want to be — not who you used to be, or who you think you are, or who you think others want you to be.
Me: Well, I don’t think we could end on a better note than that. Thank you for joining us on And All That Jazz today, Tara. It’s been a real pleasure.
Tara: The pleasure is all mine.
Me: Now, before you go, can you tell everyone listening where they can find you if they want to follow you or get to know you more?
Tara: Sure! Instagram is my main place, and you can find me at…
I paused my editing program, the needle marking my stopping place as I removed my headphones and scrubbed my hands over my face. It was just past five thirty in the morning — way too early to be awake, for most people, let alone editing a podcast.
But this had been my new normal since returning to Oakland.
Sleep was a fleeting thing, and usually found me between the hours of midnight and three or four in the morning, and then again somewhere in the late afternoon, when I’d succumb to a two-hour nap. For the most part, I was awake — my wheels turning, mind racing to make plans for the future, body aching for me to just get moving so I would stop thinking.
Every cell and fiber that made up my being was desperate for routine, for something to work toward, for distraction.
For healing.
And I was trying. Truly, I was. I’d only allowed myself four days of lounging around in full self-pity mode before I’d peeled myself out of my dark bedroom and started being a human again. I was recording for the podcast, editing and planning, working on social media marketing and self-care challenges to get more sign-ups and listens. I booked myself with other podcasters, and even started putting together a mini video series where I would help new podcasters figure out where to start and how to bring their ideas to life.
If I said I was completely avoiding thinking about Tyler, it would be a lie. Some days I did my best to keep my mind busy, but others, I submitted to every drowning thought and memory he produced in me. Some days, I’d close my eyes and trace every feature of him until it felt like he was standing in the room with me. Some days, I’d look back on old pictures of us, or old notes we’d passed in school, or text messages from the wedding weeks — though those were mostly short and direct, little things Morgan wanted him to tell me or me asking where he was because he was needed for something.
On my strong days, I’d feel the memories of him only as a soft warmth under the surface as I worked on any little thing to keep myself busy. I hadn’t made it to the point that I was going out with friends yet, but I was getting there, and I’d been in constant contact with Morgan, who was still on her honeymoon, sending me pictures and recaps every day. I’d surprised her with chocolate-covered strawberries and a couples massage for her birthday, courtesy of the resort they were staying at, and hearing her delighted shock over the phone was the closest I’d been to feeling okay since I left Bridgechester.
I was eating relatively healthy, aside from the sleeve of Oreos I sometimes consumed when pity snuck in.
And I was back in my daily routine of running.
Checking the time on my watch, I decided that was what I’d do next, since my editing brain was fried from the early morning. So with another scrub of my hands down my face, I stood, my back aching in protest from where I’d been bent over my laptop. I stretched, changed into my running shorts and tank top, laced up my sneakers, and dragged myself out of my apartment and onto the street that led to Lake Merritt.
Lake Merritt was a fresh and saltwater lake that sat in the center of downtown, and I’d picked my apartment location solely based on how long it would take me to get there. It was by far my favorite running loop in the city, an easy three-point-four miles that I could run peacefully, and as I picked up my pace from a walk to a slow jog the closer I got to it, I already felt myself growing lighter.
When my sneakers hit the official loop trail within the park, the sidewalk wide and following the circumference of the lake, I found my pace, settling between a jog and a run that I knew I could hold for a long time. I had a feeling this would be one of those mornings when I’d want to spend hours on the trail.
It was too early for the loop to be crowded, given that the sun had just made its ascent over the horizon, but there were a few joggers who nodded good morning at me as we crossed paths, acknowledging that we were one of the few crazy enough to get out of bed and put on sneakers this early. The lake itself was vacant, too, not a single paddle board or kayak to be seen, though I knew it would be crawling later. And the necklace of lights that hung between lamp posts was still the main source of light, the sun not quite yet filling the sky.