I know, I know.
But by now you should expect this from me.
It's not personal, it never is -- I always feel guilty, letting you all down, but I'd rather wait for the words to come than force them, because you can always tell when someone's faking it.
I've been in a funk. An unbalanced, hypomanic funk from which I can't seem to get a reprieve. I have responsibilities and obligations and some really good things I desperately don't want to mess up. I have screen fatigue and am often overwhelmed by the TV and the laptop and the Droid and the iPad, all right within reach, all dinging and pinging and begging me for attention, one more click one more check one more scroll.
And then there are the kids. The kids who are obsessed with the screens, on interacting with them and reenacting them and having them on and loud and constantly draining energy out of the power sockets and batteries and my soul and I don't know how to make it stop without the other thing, the trigger for my postpartum rage that I can't quite shake, the thing that brings my boiling point to a head and makes me feel like a failure as not just a mom, but as a human being because I can't handle it, the shrieks that they emit when they don't get their way, the hits and the slaps and the throwing of things and the harm on each other, no, no, NO, I can't handle that at all.
But I have to. Because that's what moms do.
I wouldn't say I'm in a bad place, but I'm not in a good one either. I'm tired with no rest in sight. I'm being pulled in a million directions, many of my own doing, and I can't do what I used to, just pull back and quiet everything, lock myself in a room and revel in the dark still quiet of the night and sleep through the insanity of day and just wait until I feel right and am no longer wary of being seen in the clarity of light. No, I have to function with society now on an even keel because I've promised myself that my damage will not mark them even though I've already failed so epically when it was just him.
I have a lot of angst stemming from whitegirlhipstermombloggerfirstworldproblems, but I don't think the fact that they're hastaggable makes them less valid. Yes, I understand that I was born into certain privilege and social grace due to the tint of the melatonin in my skin and plumbing between my legs and both the geographic locations and the socioeconomic status into which I was born and again that I married -- I am grateful that fate was kind to me in those ways, but that doesn't diminish the struggles I do have within those realms -- if anything it adds more guilt to my already bogged down conscious because what are you bitching for but you know what, I just want to be actually happy and content with the life I lead instead of always feeling beat down for things out of my control.
I'm getting older even though I feel like dirt has nothing on me, yet I still preface the number of my years in this life with "only" because a little to my chagrin that number is much lower than people expect and I hope it's just the way I carry myself and not because the wear of these years has left it's mark upon me -- or maybe I'm just finally at that place where my age isn't discernible because I'm obviously not a child and I'm obviously not elderly so anyone's guess is fair game.
However, twice in a week I was told that life is too short. Too short to do things you don't love. Too short to worry about what you can't control. Too short to be sad and cry every night at 9:36 for no reason you can figure out, that just seems to be the breaking point of the day. And I know this, while I read of the deaths of mothers and children and think to myself you never really do know and I try not to let that trigger my anxiety which is running at a fever pitch since the chemicals in my brain can't pick if I'm happy or sad so just BEYOND CONTROL seems to be the middle ground, for Christ's sake, and I waiver when I think to myself that I'm almost 28 because really, is it that short?
No one knows when they're going to go, not even the ones who have been given a timeline. It's not certain, so you can go on one of two presumptions -- that your life will be relatively free from tragedy and you will live to see nearly a century through your eyes; or you have every potential to die tomorrow so live it up today because you never do know.
I don't know that I'm fully capable of carpe diem because that requires a lot of energy, something I only have in spades when I let go of my demons and relinquish the balance I've fought so hard for. But I think I can let it out in spurts, to try to make sure what I do with this potentially shortened time are things I won't regret, things that don't make me cringe or feel beat down. I can try to let go of the shoulds and supposed tos and the feeling like I'm not living up to expectations because really, my own are the only ones that should matter. I can live by my own standards and do better because I want to, not because I'm told to.
It's hard to admit when things aren't going well. I still live with fear in my heart of the ramifications of being so open, so honest, because I know not everyone who reads these words will do so with good intentions. But holding all of this in has only compounded my frustration, so something has to give. I don't want to hide anymore, to feel ashamed of myself and afraid of the what ifs and the could bes and the might happens.
I just want to write, to have quiet and still and to let the words come and sort themselves out and to live up to my own standards, my own dreams, my own desires.
I don't know if life is too short or too long, I just know that this one is mine and I want to do more with it than I've been allowed. I don't really know what that means, but I'm working on it.