Some Day In November
I am the mom at the park with my kids on the cell phone, writing.
It is that day.
The day where I feel gone, far away from what I know, questioning the very thing I want to think I know. Which is that maybe I'm okay.
My months look something like this: I'm okay for a week, I'm a mess for a week, and I'm in the middle for two weeks.
I just exited okay and am sliding toward messy, the gut full of doubt and failure and useless.
I know that only I can find the remedy.
This morning I wished to be a dog. Simple looking at what was around me, simple awareness without the intent for self-destruction or judgement or the knowledge that change is required, preferred, desired.
I don't know how you in-tact-self-worth, in-each-moment people do it. Do you simply will yourselves to believe you're enough? I need instructions.
Last night, my husband pondered aloud the idea of my desire to create a persona, instead of simply being a person.
This morning, a friend pondered aloud if perhaps it was time for me to retreat into the actual life that I have for the winter. A bit of a hibernation. That maybe that would help me in creating the outer world I seem to think I need.
Inner before outer.
Also? You don't have to be here reading this, you know. Even if you know me and love me - which, thank you - please don't be here if you roll your eyes and sigh every time this happens. I know I'm a lot. I burden myself, too. And I question whether or not talking about all of this publicly still makes sense. Sometimes it feels wildly self indulgent, and sometimes I can feel and see connections deepening. Two sides.
The children have created a rocket ship and are encouraging me to board to escape the monster.
Which is clearly something to consider.