It’s been difficult to write.
That’s not entirely true.
It’s been difficult to write something that doesn’t sound like suicidal ideation blended with complaint and condemnation and a little bit of protein powder to make an “I fucking hate everything and everyone and can’t remember why I keep trying at life smoothie”.
And I am relatively certain that nobody wants to read that. Or taste that. Or whatever.
On the bright side, I’m not literally suicidal. And all sorts of pop songs are cycling through my brain—not death metal—so, all is not lost. Though I did tell my dad yesterday that things were going to get very Dantesque around here if I don’t get a ruling in my case soon. “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here”.
But for the moment, I am only a depressing mess in written word, not in other facets of my life.
Today I have been wondering about that a bit. And I am wondering if there is an element of true self and false self, or of seen and hidden, or of private and public, that is expressed through the writing and being. Is there a tie that binds my writing with my deepest feelings, and keeps it honest? Or is the best of me brought out in person, leaving the struggle for the page? Is there some way that my craft expresses only one bit of me and not another?
I don’t know how to answer that.
And now I am tired. Tired beyond all telling or explaining.
Just considering one or two questions exhausted me. And my splint just hit buttons without my consent and tried to send my document over the internet for translation? What the fuck, splint? Why are you acting out? I know why the dog and cat and offspring are cranky—not enough play time, no fresh litter liner, and no access to cigarettes or boyfriend, respectively.
And I am cranky because everything and everyone else needs and wants my attention and affection and compassion and concern. But I don’t even have enough of that for me. I can’t give what I don’t have. But I keep on trying. I’m a fucking bleeding turnip. I’m a fucking bleeding stone.
So, while the dog is fed and the cat is sleeping in the window and the temperature is below 80 degrees and the daughter is out, I’m going to stop trying to express my thoughts and start taking a nap.
Because the one thing I know for certain is that no matter how many times I fall, I’ve always gotten up again, and I think that is the truth for all of us in this household—whether I hold us up, or whether the others lift me up, or whether we all take turns dragging one another from the depths. And lying down this afternoon gives me an opportunity to wake in an hour or two, and get back up again. Rested a bit, I hope. Ready to fight—in the good and righteous way where we make it through life no matter what challenges are thrown our way. And the longer I have fought, the more I have learned that you stop the monsters by throwing back love and kindness and good. So, I need to regroup and give myself the attention, affection, compassion, and concern—the care and love and kindness—so I can keep putting it out into the world and overcoming the challenges. That’s right: We fight with care and love and kindness. It’s the only way to win. It’s the only way to get back up again.