I know my mind is a bit messed. I’ve been trying so hard to hold things together. Too hard, I imagine. If I had a friend who I talked to about this, I would imagine them telling me that I am being hard on myself. They’d be right, but the way they say it, it sounds like a bad thing. Like wanting to be a better human is a character flaw that I ought to purge at once.
I disagree, I think I’ve been convinced of feeling the same way a few times. But those were times when my spirit felt crushed and my soul weary. The happy pictures I have of myself are the times when I was content with myself because I was pushing myself towards the goal of being a better person.
Okay, I will admit that those times I was also quite content with the minutia, my home ran smoothly, my libido was up, my self-image was positive, I felt fulfilled and driven. And right now, the things I would complain about would revolve around the dull topics of children, husbands, body-image and home care. I would then quickly let the listener know that I was on the verge of a “big change” that would likely fix the problem. Most of these big changes have never been realised - I am a lot of talk - and many have been undertaken and have quietly failed.
So, I suppose, I don’t really know anything about this at all.
I’ve been contemplating neticide (which I may have made up), completely removing myself from the tubes, getting a fresh start. Granted, my five readers would worry and miss me - so maybe I would let them know where to find me again, once I complete my contemplated net death and net rebirth. But then I think about how it would look, or what people might think, and would I feel the same way in another month? And then I stop and find something else to busy myself with so that I don’t have to make a decision one way or another.
I just feel like I have messed things up by not giving my “all” to this or anything in my life. And I know, I know, I know, I can’t give my all, I have kids, I have a life, I have so many things to keep up with right now and no one expects me to be perfect at everything... I know. But, I have been doing so little lately, so very little. My morale is shot, getting out of bed is my first chore of the day and they just keep coming. Giving up my ideal of being super mom hasn’t changed that - the same things remain, I just do a shittier job of them. And now, I can't find things in my house.
What this spat of writing tells me, is that I am happier when I am productive. I know I can do most of the house stuff well with a small effort, then, maybe, I can find something else to fill the time I once spent frenetically cleaning and organizing already clean and organized things (and ideally, stop moving them so that when I am looking for the tape I don’t have to tear the house apart... it was in the snack bin, of course).
I am sitting in the shade outside my neighbourhood artist’s cafe. I was going to walk to the frou-frou one on main, or the crunchy one on main, but after a spontaneous turn, I am here. Not quite ready to go in, partly because it will likely be hot (it is a small, reasonably popular space) and mostly because I fear being outed as an impostor in coolsville. My Old Navy flowly peasant top sure to give me away. Plus, I don’t remember my last shower or the last time I changed my underwear*.
My fear of being uncool isn’t as crazy as some of you might think. I am a dork, which I know many strange people love, but sometimes I can’t trust my brain not to stall out - leaving me with the blank stare of a passport photo. No, if I am going to do this, I am going to do it when I am feeling a touch more “together.” Or at least a little less “stanky.”
*both have occurred in the last 2-3 days, I assure you!