“I wanted a perfect ending. Now I’ve learned, the hard way, that some poems don’t rhyme, and some stories don’t have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what’s going to happen next. Delicious ambiguity.” – Gilda Radner

Delicious ambiguity. That. That, there. That’s the secret of life for me—only I fight it, tooth and nail, with every ounce of energy I have in me.

My therapists have been telling me this literally for YEARS. “Let it unfold, Jen.” “Life is not black and white.” “There is not a logical explanation for everything.” “Some things you will not know.”

You might as well ask me to stop eating Lawson’s chip dip. Sure, I may make it for a short period of time, but when the stress level shoots up, I’m inevitably drawn back to my comforting, unhealthy coping skills, in this case junk food and overanalyzing. I may have others. 😉 The curse of being a human being.

I haven’t written about G recently because it’s raw and ugly, but I have to share a bit to move on to the next, better part of the story.

Long—and hideous—story short: I had agreed to attempt to walk through his therapy with him as he dealt with his recent Narcissistic Personality Disorder diagnosis; however, unbeknownst to me, the twenty-three year old also agreed to accompany him on said journey. I’m sure YOU see how this could be a problem. It culminated in a confrontation between the three of us and ended with me being sane(ish) and single and the two of them, um, living happily ever after?

That’s the non-happy ending. That’s the gray area, the confusing area, the painful area: the area I want to analyze and pick apart and figure out and solve and arrive at resolution.

Delicious ambiguity.

What does that even mean, here? How can any of that situation be delicious?

I don’t think it can. I think that particular part of the story is going to remain gray and murky and sludge-filled and swampy and disgusting.

BUT.

That’s not where the story actually ends. That’s not where MY story ends. I’ll be damned but therapy has given me some boundaries, some clarity. I will NEVER go back to an unhealthy relationship like that one again. I mean EVER. (Yes, I’m also singing Taylor Swift in my head. You’re welcome.)

AND.

I’ve been forced out of my comfort zone. I’ve had to take a deep breath and look around and reach out and start forming new friendships (and giving some TLC to older ones). I talked to neighbors the other day! Me! Stepped out and talked to new, scary people! Not Jack Nicholson in The Shining scary, but “We’re all already friends and you’re the new person” scary. Huh. Maybe scarier than Nicholson. At least for me.

AND.

I start school on Monday! Me! Going for it! Working and raising women and going after my dream of being a Psych NP!

That’s the delicious ambiguity: that, in the middle of an emotional shit-storm, I can (1) not question nor compare myself to a 23 year old, (2) not beat myself up for giving another human being a second chance, (3) continue to make progress in therapy by respecting (FINALLY!) healthy boundaries for myself, (4) step outside of my comfort zone by reaching out to others, (5) keep getting out of bed and even—gasp!—smiling and laughing on an (almost) daily basis.

J.D. Salinger said, “People are always ruining things for you.” Margaret Atwood reminds us, “Don’t let the bastards grind you down.” And those are both true. Both 100% true for me. But Gilda reminds me of the delicious ambiguity that is life. And Tennyson says it succinctly: “Come, friends, it’s not too late to seek a new world.”

Come. Let’s explore together.