Excuse the title language, but I'm riding the struggle bus lately. Since the whole point here is to make this a very public diary for myself, I suppose we should just dive in? We all know I'm not techy, perky or flawless enough to become a mid-thirties influencer, so there's no other reason for us to meet in this space like we do but to get vulnerable, baby. Plus if you're an influencer you have to suck the tit of your followers, and I'm wildly uncomfortable with that. So just get the popcorn ready, accept my many flaws, and read about my unhinged but authentic state of being, okay? Without further ado...
I feel like I take forever to do things, and lately I just don't have the drive. Half-baked grad school dreams, half-written books, a tighter bod, an imagined trip to a craggy shoreline, the thought of another baby. Nothing seems it will ever come to be. For the past few months, my inner guide has been telling me to rest anyway - she's a real battle axe - but now I'm actually starting to think I'll lose momentum.
Unused muscles. All the things that atrophy if you store them long enough in a box somewhere, unmoved and unruffled in neat little stacks of 'maybe someday'. I'm afraid I'm losing my stride. But that's what happens when you spend too long doing one thing while neglecting other stuff.
I wish I didn't need so much time to make up my mind about things. Or to work up the courage to do them in general. I wish I could just go for it, to be as impulsive and fancy free as my heart wants to be. To be fair, I tried that once and I crashed and burned and now I realize it's not safe to whisper your wants into the world, lest you miscalculate the ending. But making plans also feels scary because life is tender and nothing that you want comes to pass the way you planned it. Anyway, it seems I'm not all here right now...
Nothing is what it used to be - my fading intellect is trunked away somewhere as a pretty memory. I used to be so clever. I used to be so shiny. Now I stare at my worn skin cells and worry over the dried up eggs that build a prison of my womb.
I feel the spiders crawl and nest in my brain. I feel stupid all the the time. I try to clear the cobwebs out of my mind. I try to do good, conscious work in my career and I try to teach my children well at home. But my absent-minded moments scare me.
I'm just out on a cloud somewhere. Maybe these 6:00am mornings and lazy dog walks in picture perfect Hallmark villages are causing me to lose my fire, to get too comfortable with softness. With the exception of getting my children to go where I need them to go, I'm too laissez faire. I'm losing people I love and reading books about death and I'm still not fine with it but I'm accepting it in ways I've never been able to before. I used to resist this stuff. I used to cry more. I used to fight loss in ways that were terrible and beautiful - attuned to fragility. I suppose I'm adjusting to grief and the possibility of life after death in a way that takes away the finality of it...the relationship carries on, it's just going to be different now.
Ram Dass said, "If you know how to love, then you know how to die." So death feels soft to me now. There's comfort there, I suppose.
At present, I feel foggy and peaceful. My emotions come for brief periods and disappear into the ether, not long or intense enough for me to hold them or claim them. How did this happen? Emotionality defines me. I'm ruled by the moon, baby. Suddenly I'm not a volatile ocean anymore. I'm halcyon waters. Doesn't seem like a bad thing, but for me, it's slightly unsettling. I've heard that feeling resistance when breaking long-held patterns is a common response, but I'm secretly wondering if I'm turning into a robot.
Maybe this is just me submitting to life. Maybe I'm just submissive now.
What a frightening thought.
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