I feel like I've said everything.
I am feeling uninspired.
I like to talk about telling the truth, but then I get stuck in this way of being where... hey, I talk about my embarassing childhood and my weight and my marriage and my opinions about society. I SO tell it like it is.
But, what it really is right now is something else.
I am in a rut. I can't remember the last time I did anything really exciting. I can't remember the last time I felt really, really pleased with myself. I can't remember the last time something non-kid related delighted or thrilled me.
I feel like I need a vacation or a night out with my husband, but the truth is that I need a lot more than that. I need a new life. I need a new routine. I need for something to delight me and make me pant and wriggle and squeal. I need for there to be something more to me than this.
This. Days go by and I'm wrestling children into clothing, picking smashed crackers out of the carpeting. I wipe the counter tops, cut my hair, watch television in the evening. I take pills that turn me into a cave with slippery walls. Nothing sticks in my chest, anymore.
I don't have any interest.
I don't have any interest in sex or the weather.
I want to be shaken by something.
I want to grip something in my teeth.
I'm not happy, right now.
I have my girls and my hobbies and my cute little writings and everything is very dear and subdued and managed. I sew and bake and dog ear the corners of the pages of my books with dry, manicured fingers.
Do you want to know what I'm feeling deep down, under everything, where I used to be a boiling sea of dread and color and wonder? I feel... sort of annoyed and frustrated. I feel very much bored. I feel tired. Empty. Hollow. Nothing.
I just feel nothing.
I feel proud of my daughters and in awe of them. I feel desperate for them and so very in love with them.
As far as I go... as a person who exists separately from being a mom... I don't exist. I have black glass for eyes. I wear sensible shoes. I never get out of control. I keep things running in tip-top shape. I am practically a robot, accostomed to wiping smears of jelly from the upholstery and supressing my ideas and whims. I wait for the time to be right, and then it never is.
I can't get alone.
When I'm left alone for the day, there is too much to pick up and clean.
When I go away by myself, there isn't enough time to turn off my tendencies to worry that everybody is okay without me.
I need to do something big.
I sort of feel like I might be losing all of the good things about being a person. I never feel happy on my own, anymore. I never feel anything on my own. I'm so mad and lonely and bored at who I am.
How's that for telling the truth? I'm a big, wooden nothing. I'm totally lost. I watch tv and own books and books of muffin recipes.