Many, many years ago, I did a long fast. A juice fast. A 40-day juice fast.
I didn’t eat solid food for 40 days, and I only drank fruit juice, veggie juice, and water.
You know what’s interesting? The first 35 days or so of that fast were easy. Really easy. I just settled in my mind that I was on a long fast, and that I just needed to drink my juice and get on with my day to day business. And I did. And it was easy.
Until I reached the last five days.
Those last five days were excruciating. I could see the end in sight, and I was fixated on it. I was counting down the days. The hours. The minutes.
My mind was consumed with thoughts of food. Even food that I had never liked before sounded incredibly delicious to me. The smell of food seemed torturous. I was mesmerized with commercials for local restaurants. I poured over recipe books, planning every meal for the foreseeable future.
Those last five days of that 40-day juice fast were one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
And I feel like I’m there again.
For seven years, we’ve lived in this tiny condo with no outdoor space to call our own, and so little storage space that my tools and DIY supplies have spilled out into virtually every room, and even out the front door now.
For seven years, this condo seemed just fine to me. I really was perfectly happy with it. In fact, at one point, I think I even told Matt that I would be happy staying here forever.
Now the thought of forever in this condo makes me feel all panicky inside. The rooms in this condo that used to feel just fine to me…spacious even…now feel like they’re closing in on me.
I find myself being more irritable with Matt, and the cats, and the dog. While we’ve all lived here just fine for seven years, it now feels like they’re always under foot. Always in my way.
Every time Matt tries to navigate through the narrow hallway or tiny bathroom in his wheelchair and puts another scrape on the wall or the door, I find myself clinching my teeth and mentally shaking my fist at the small hallway and ridiculously tiny bathroom.
And I no longer want to focus on the condo. I’d rather piddle my days away by planning and dreaming about the house. I find myself obsessed with looking at pictures of gardens, landscaping, exterior house colors, and all of those things I had absolutely no control over during my seven years of living in a condo, where all outside areas are considered “common areas” that belong to everyone…and yet, at the same time, belong to no one.
The end is in sight. And the last portion of this long, seven-year fast is excruciating.