Enough

I have a shopping problem.

Not fun to admit. It’s been around 10 years of addiction to buying happiness. It’s always fleeting, but in the moment, I keep imagining this thing is the final key to me becoming who I want to be. I’m self aware. Not in the moment, but I’m far from in denial.

I know shopping addiction is a bandaid symptom to not liking yourself or your life. True. It’s a phenomenal escape- I’ll just buy my way into a new reality. I was so close to being finished with my debts, too. Then my reality was ripped from me.

Due to his own traumas and mental illnesses, no excuse (he knows this), my husband lied about every detail of his life. Even through our friendship. He had perfected a false identity that involved being a home owning veteran. Neither were true. A lot of are core issues were around me not respecting or fully trusting his lies. Our trust is irrevocably broken.

I had sold most of my belongings in preparation to move to the UK to be with him. This really would have happened, that is true.

The humiliation of returning to work without a ring and with a changed name in Teams, having an empty bedroom of belongings (and what was there reminding me of him), I think I broke in a specific way without noticing.

I justified falling back into my shopping habit by needing to change my environment. True and fair enough. To the extent I went, though, maybe not. I ordered in a lot of DoorDash, paid for a gym I didn’t enjoy going to (lot of machine hogs), repurchased nearly all of my clothing (gained weight, hated looking at clothing he built memories into), rearranged my bedroom and basically refurnished it with Amazon puzzles… Oh, then there’s the books. I loved the idea of being someone who read for fun. So I bought a shelf full of books. Of course. The best intentions in my dopamine-filled eyes, with each and every book. Hell, ?I even redid my bathroom twice.

The non-literal mania of it eventually wore off. I am now double where I was, plus a car payment. Low cost per month, of course, but the reality hit me all at once this weekend. I do love all I have. My space has never felt more like home. Still, holy shit.

It’s time to actually do something about my problem.

The self bully in me wants to say “Oh, easy to say now that you bought Bezos’s next yacht” but I truly could easily think of more things to make this even more cozy and visually perfect. I just have to stop. I need to start living the life I’ve been trying to buy my way into. Books don’t read themselves, blogs don’t write themselves, clothes don’t wear themselves, walks don’t happen without a pair of legs.