Wherein I Swear, A Lot.

Friday, June 15, 2018

I wish I could pinpoint a reason to have started this post, but the truth is there are many reasons. A careless scrap of conversation yesterday, an acquaintance's post, re-reading my (really) old posts, my sister's dating life... They've all led me here: I'm not the same person I was.

Underwhelming? A tad. But it's the simplistic truth. I'm not, I'm not sure I'd like to be either.

Some of those old posts are better than I thought; I remember how I felt and why I wrote them. I remember where I was going with them. The feelings come back. Fuck, they just make me feel. I wish that didn't equate to nausea.

I don't feel passionately anymore. I don't obsess, I don't hate, I don't fall in love. I've reach equilibrium and until yesterday that felt okay. Yesterday, I realized it makes me dead. (Too dramatic?)  I used to feel all the feels; mine and yours. It was overwhelming and over time I stopped writing and just stopped feeling. I didn't have time for the writing; to sit and cry and let it all hang out. I didn't want to do it anymore. It's like fucking therapy.

Yes, the swearing is necessary. I can't remember the last time I really cussed properly. It shows a certain investment, no?

I loved the writing. I loved to hate the writing; feeling that intensely really does make me nauseous, but then all feelings did too, so at least there was something being created beyond me. Now? I've been trying, I've been hoping, I've been sitting at that fucking desk and avoiding it because it's too hard and there are other things to do that need my attention.

I need a fucking vacation. Not away from my kids, but away from the routine. Old me: she hated the fucking routine. That didn't come out as strongly as I wanted it to come out. Hated, loathed, despised: that girl was anti-fucking-routines and hard as fucking nails to the detriment of herself and anyone that had the misfortune of talking to her. Brittle.

Not exactly something to aspire to, huh? No, but she felt. She was passionate and interested and willing to do something. To deviate from all the fucking norms (pun intended). Where did she go? Hell, when did she go?

Probably at the same time I stopped wearing black. I hate black. There are people who only wear black. I am not one of those people; I was never one of those people. I like colour, but I also like a good pair of black shit-kicking boots. With heels. And treads, because snow.

Now? Flats, because I have two kids and one of them just started walking and the other likes to run. Fuck I love those kids. Did I ever love myself the way I love them?

No, I don't think I did. I never accepted myself the way I accept them. There was always so much shame. Why? Where did it all fucking come from? (And where does it go?) I gave up so much of myself for their benefit. Little things left (and I said it was just for now, until they were older; then, I could do it again. Be me again.) I didn't mourn their passing, I just let go for my kids. Is it really that big of a deal to stop wearing heels? Probably not, except it kind of looks like part of my identity now, looking back. A part I re-made for the new mom-identity I needed and wanted. When did I become J&L's mom instead of Michelle who happens to be J&L's mom too?

I want to stop saying I (or we) will do it later, when they are older, but I can't fight alone. It's easier to bend and I'm so tired. How long does it take to recover from sleep deprivation? (That's a real question incidentally. Anyone know?)

Will writing more help? Is that what helped before? Or was it just the honesty with myself held accountable by the whole fucking internet? If I was honest with my feelings, ignored the nausea and the shame and just posted it, did it make me feel more like me? I really don't fucking know. I think maybe the more I let myself feel the more often I felt. The more often I was nauseous and full and needed to let it out. Like nausea to the point of vomiting rather than just unending nausea. At least when you vomit, even if it turns into word vomit, you feel better.

Note to self: Tell the truth and let the characters lead. (Thanks Stephen King)

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