Dear Me,
I don’t want to do what I don’t want to do. But I do.
I know. It’s called responsibility. It’s called adulthood. Sometimes, it’s called survival.
But if I only do what I don’t want to do, I’m tired and I’m cranky; my imagination stalls and my hopelessness fills out its contours all too quickly. I tell myself – I tell you – it’s a matter of proportion, of attitude, of the size and shape of obstacles and how to outsmart them.
Now, now. It’s nothing new. You’ve honed your navigational talents relying on the stars; you’ve mastered changing course when required. If all else fails, there’s stubbornness and guts.
Yes. You’re older now. It’s more difficult. But you’re in my way. You’re in your way. And I’m not ready to surrender yet.
* * *
I’m tired of doing what I don’t want to do. I’m tired of dreaming, spinning my wheels, checking my progress and seeing I’m nowhere. Worse, it feels as if I’m losing ground.
Still, I look at all that is good in my life and treasure it, though Wasted Potential peers over my shoulder and shakes its shaming finger.
Shakes it at you.
The shame is in not achieving. Not getting out of your own way.
No. It’s more complex than that. It’s a woman’s shame and I realize this, but I’m not able to trace its origins to a cellular level. I cannot name its parts, and so I cannot cure what dizzies them.
* * *
So how do I do it? How does anyone do it? How do we pick up after decades of one life and plunge into the other when our gears and cylinders have gone on the fritz, though we’re actively configuring alternates to take over their roles?
Spit it out. Write it out. Figure it out.
* * *
Dear me.
I wake and the fatigue from another restless night lodges in my neck and my shoulders. My upper right arm is throbbing and it’s been five years. It is worse since the boy in the checkout line pinched me. It was sudden and painful, and his mother grabbed him immediately, then apologized.
We chatted about this and that and how much boys can eat and how quickly they grow tall. But the purple welt that rises reminds me how much is a matter of luck.
The phone rings and within hours of each other my sons call home. It happens in this way and it is strange and delicious. I sing to their deep voices. I hear their fatigue. I know my incredible fortune: my distant, proximate, increasingly foreign sons. My healthy sons. My job here, not quite done.
* * *
Night sets loose an angry army of ants to pillage and war beneath my skin, to steamroll my thighs and my calves, to wake me over and over as I toss and get up, then try to sleep again. My head is heavy, my eyes are dry, my mission remains diverted and unfulfilled.
Am I doomed to abandon this me to you? Where are my restless legs to run?
I don’t want to do what I don’t want to do. I will not yield. Get out of my way.
* * *
Four weeks of emotional, methodical, maniacal document gathering, number crunching, memories encapsulated in figures and receipts.
Four online applications at three hours each.
One prospect researched for six hours, spread over two nights.
A single interview, and nothing. A conversation, and nothing. Emails, and nothing. Ideas, more ideas, always ideas.
Perhaps, something.
* * *
Do you mind? It will help, I tell you.
Listen to me.
There is the bottle of Cherries in the Snow. Go fetch it from the medicine cabinet. Paint your nails to keep them strong through typing. Enjoy your pretty fingers, the hot pink, the reminders of femininity.
It’s not your favorite color, but it’s bright. It’s cheery.
Sometimes you do what you want to do. Sometimes, you do what you want to do but you aren’t aware that you want to do it.
And?
There’s work to be done: domestic upkeep, stoking the furnace; heeding the indescribable needs of your restless legs.
* * *
You aren’t alone in these issues, my girl.
Target and pluck as you see fit, then forge ahead in the doing whether you want to or not: I am uncomfortable in my skin for lack of exercise, I am frightened by bills that mount beyond my barricade, I worry over maintenance on all fronts. I recognize the natural accumulations of aging: the body depreciates while nonetheless retaining grace, the vehicle shows wear but continues to run, the well-constructed home bears cracks beneath the paint.
* * *
Dear Me.
You’re such a pain in the ass these days. Living with you is an aggravation. I’m sick of your moods, and the interminable restlessness that idles in your body but rarely in your head.
Cut yourself some slack. And me, while you’re at it.
You are not inert.
* * *
Transitions are never easy but meaningful moments mingle with the stultifying sameness of the search for orientation: daily duties, offset by Spring at the window in full flower; the human hand, kindly soothing more often than landing an unintentional blow.
* * *
Dearest Me:
On the mornings you wake exhausted or disheartened, so be it. Do what you have to do; no more, no less. On the days you’re alive and on fire – dig for whatever you can and grasp tightly to steady yourself – then maximize!
Now pay attention, please.
I am not suggesting you pretend that legitimate worries don’t exist. They do. And you will continue to do what you don’t want to do, because not to do so is to allow the obstacles to rule.
Put them in their place. Refuse them squatters rights along your path. Tell them – in no uncertain terms:
Get out of my way. I will not yield. I’m coming through.
Dear you
Wow.
A great post.
Truthful and yearning and real.
Brave woman of-the-pretty-nails-and-guts
Write it out.
Yes.
That’s what we do.
_tg xx
Denial has a bad rep, but sometimes it’s necessary. Some things that may gnaw at us just aren’t ready to be tackled yet. Sometimes we have to wait for an aha moment…or until we feel strong enough to deal with the worst possible outcome. And thanks for the inspiration for a real post!
This: “No. It’s more complex than that. It’s a woman’s shame and I realize this, but I’m not able to trace its origins to a cellular level. I cannot name its parts, and so I cannot cure what dizzies them.” Wow.
I wonder at times, we are so framed by a man’s world, I wonder, do we have the words for what’s within? And without words, how can we put things in their right places?
Hmmm. Right. It’s that balance between cutting yourself some slack, but staying motivated, but also trying to get out of your own head a little bit all rolled up together. And let’s face it, life is hard/stressful and good. Or I may have it all wrong in terms of what you mean here. Personally, your insights and your thoughts on marriage and divorce and moving on have really resonated with me and my situation and I’m very grateful for your posts.
Thank you for those words, Judi. They mean a great deal.
What a remarkable piece of writing, D, even though I suspect it might have hurt (physically, psychically) to get all of these words out. Then again, you’re a writer and that’s what you do: write your way into it and, hopefully, through it.
My wish for you is a day today with fewer demands from all of the miserable parts of being an adult and more from the good ones. xo
Thank you, Kristen. I think we all have periods during which we need to get out of our own way. Sometimes it means a talking-to. As often as required.
The boy I mention, who pinched me, is apparently autistic. That was part of his mother’s apology, and she was struggling to restrain him (he was nearly her size). I am reminded how profoundly we love our children, and how grateful we should be for them – with or without special needs. I am also reminded that we all have “adult responsibilities” to carry, and much to learn in the process.
All I will say to this is… Word.
That’s slang for dang girl, do I ever hear you! It is a never ending process of getting out of our own way.
From one dreamer to another. xx00
I so hear, and feel, this BLW—wishing you community and soulful self-compassion as you step out of your own way (maybe with my worst self holding the door for both of us).
Dearest Wolf,
What a brilliant piece of writing. I suspect difficult to write and more excruciating to actually feel these emotions. Writing, I hope, provides catharsis for you and the feeling that things will improve. Sending much love.
the morning is consumed with gray and wet and wind and weight. hard to get moving on a morning such as this. the eight track in my head switches frantically from one piece to another, not allowing for appreciation or a simple sense of rhythm. i want a single track…i want adele, melodious and pure. instead the rap, mixes with the beach boys, overtaking enya and yanni and all but drowned out by the jackson five. there is too much noise to get anything done. if i could silence the drone i might be able to hear my own voice, i might be able to slow down the tempo and find my way.
you speak to the secrets we keep and the battles we work so diligently to keep private. thank you again for your transparency and the shared hope of contentment.
This is so beautifully written, Kristine. I wonder if our mornings would feel less gray and wet and weighty if we gave them voice, and knew we didn’t have to keep them so private.
Too much noise. Yes. External and internal.
I wish ten thousand readers for you, all of them paying. For starters.
I love the way you organized your thoughts in this post. I think this touches on a topic universal to us all. As I read this (yes, at work), I’m thinking the same thing…this job is not what I want to be doing, but it’s what needs to be done now. So I guess I better bet back to doing it (right after I paint my nails with some Purple Ice Vinyard!).
And as a reward for doing being so disciplined, I’ll relax with a glass of wine or two tonight!
Purple Ice Vinyard! (I’m wearing Cherries in the Snow, but I miss my Vixen.)