Today is a day. #Socrates.
Everything I touch is getting all covered in stupid. I can’t write. I can’t think straight. I can’t tap dance.
I have no idea what’s up, but I am dangerously close to flinging myself out of a window. Not in a bad way, though. I will do it with grace, dignity, and aplomb. Like a mother-trucking swan.
I’m not depressed. Let’s be clear about that. When you have a mental illness, like ummmm…OCD & PTSD and secondary depression, (no reason I’m being so specific) people start hiding the knives and Drano if you so much as have a frowny face.
I watched Ojka last night and almost cried. Thank God I didn’t or I’d be blogging with a plastic spork on a non-toxic bar of soap. In a hospital. Because of the crying.
My daughter and her family are at Disney World. Or maybe it’s Disney Land. Or maybe she said she was going to the grocery store. I just know they are elsewhere.
My son is in Nashville with his friends doing whatever it is twenty-something-year-old guys do. I suspect there is beer involved, but how am I to know? He could be at a crochet festival right now laughing like a freak over a joke a white-haired lady named Marge told. Probably something she heard at church. Probably something about suntan pantyhose, Ritz crackers, and the choir director.
Oh, Marge. You’re a hoot.
The Big Dog graduated from college. That’s one reason he’s in Nashville. Blowing out some cobwebs of his own. Now he has a shiny degree and not a job in site. I’m totally freaked out for him. He doesn’t seem freaked out, so there’s that. When he was a puppy, I used to tell him that if he didn’t study hard and go to a good college that he’d wind up pumping gas for a living.
- What a lame ass, old school thing for me to have threatened him with. Not a lot of gas-pumpers left in the world. I may as well have threatened him with future employment at AOL.
- What if I had the whole thing backward? What if graduating college dooms him to a life of pumping gas or worse, trying to convince dial-up customers that AOL is the right choice for them?
Fudge. Fudge it right to heck.
Maybe I’m in a funk because I know that I should be elsewhere, too. I live in the Midwest because that’s where the kids are, and where my grandkids are now. I’ve been here for about 25 or so years. I never, ever planned on living out my life in Kansas. I hated Kansas. I always thought of it as a temporary price I was paying.
Truth? I really, really don’t want to be here. Like, not at all. It feels like I’m smothering. It feels like the walls are inching closer and closer.
Like if I stretch out my arms as far as they’ll go, I’ll touch walls on both sides.
My daughter has a career, a family, and a life filled with ball games and dance lessons and friends. She’s happy. Her tank is full.
My son is launching into a life he’ll create as he goes. He’ll have new experiences, some good and some less so, but he’ll find fulfillment in ways I’m sure I can’t even imagine.
I wait for them. That’s my life.
Does Kitten need me to watch the kids? Is she sick and needs Mom to love on her and manage things until she’s better? Do the kids want to go to the park? Does Big Dog want to come home on Sunday to hang out with me until evening? Is he sick? What if he gets sick?
My kids are so good to me. I mean really. They pull me into their lives and they make me feel wanted and needed. But after I leave, their lives go on – as they should. Mine seems to suspend in midair. I only come alive when they make me real again.
Does anyone understand that? Anyone? Anywhere? Please, someone, tell me you understand.
I need a full year of travel to get my head right. I know I do. Not a weekend trip here and there. A full on pack up the SUV and drive away kind of thing. I don’t want to stay in one place more than a month or two at a time, with short visits back to Kansas to see my babies.
I need to breathe new air, smell new smells, soak up new molecules.
Something in me recognizes that if I don’t, I’m going to stop growing as a person. And my relationship? It’s going to suffer. No one wants to live a life beside a person who’s lost all ability to create.
How do I reconcile my overpowering love of my babies with my own need to run? The older I get, the tighter the noose around my neck. (I should really keep an Excel spreadsheet of all the things I shouldn’t say.)
Whatever kind of voodoo I have on me now, I’m sure it’ll go away once I sacrifice a virgin. You can find anything on Craigslist.
Anyway, I’m consoling myself with music choices you probably won’t understand. It’s a complete hodge-podge of tunes that work together to blow the cobwebs out of my brain. It’s a dustbuster for my gray matter.
Here ya go, then. Blow your own cobwebs.