Archive | February, 2014

Wow.

13 Feb

I say that almost a million times a day.  

“Wow!  You’re so strong!”  

“Wow!  You’re really working hard on that!”

“Wow!  You peed all over the floor despite sitting on the potty!”

There’s apparently a right and a wrong way to praise kids, but I don’t think I could care about that even if I tried.  (I did try; I still don’t care.)  I have enough other things to worry about, which includes entirely made-up scenarios that require a lot of time and effort to freak out about.  

I don’t really have anything to say or write about.  Currently, I’m explaining what a pirouette is to Zoe and listening to Fanfare for the Common Man in recognition of the Winter Olympics.  Earlier, I made meatballs.  I’m just dripping with sarcasm but that also makes me sloggy and slow.  

I’m not really sure what this blog is all about.  But at least I wrote something today. 

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Today, I feel bad.

7 Feb

Sometimes everything just seems so sad.  The world is just marred  and scarred and ugly.  Every time I yell at my kids because I can’t control myself; every time I wake up with that old friend draped over my back bringing me further down; every time I realize how selfish and self-centered I am:  this is the place I live.  This is where I wake up and eat breakfast and wish for things to be different but can’t seem to change.  This:  is life sometimes; is overwhelming; is only temporary.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up and the heaviness will be gone and my ability to hold my tongue and breathe quiet, tranquil breaths will come back and the fire-breathing dragon will be hibernating again.  Maybe tomorrow will seem bright and new instead of blinding and cruel.  Maybe everything will be okay again for a little while tomorrow.

Tomorrow feels like a brick in my throat.  Jumbled words in my brain trying to make their pitiful way out feel like punishment.  It’s times when my mind is so clouded like this that I realize how much I prize my intelligence and ability to think and form words and pictures and understand things.  I can’t right now.  And I don’t know when I’ll be able to again.

 

This is it, isn’t it?  This is life with little kids.  With little kids and ongoing depression.  Isn’t it?  This is a heaviness that is friendly in its familiarity but is suffocating nonetheless.

 

And I write these things down and just… what is this?  It is so melodramatic.  It is so bourgeois.  It is so very real.  This is why I hate myself sometimes; can’t I just calm down?  If I tried hard enough?  I must be doing something wrong?  I must be doing something wrong.

 

I know it’s crazy, but sometimes I’m glad to be depressed.  Maybe because it’s the only thing I feel like I’m good at.  Maybe because it’s so worn in for me already.  It’s different.  It’s… not fun.  Or funny.  But people who are interesting throughout history have been depressed and did cool stuff. 

Then– obviously– other times, depression is like cotton balls shoved deep in my mouth; like desiccants poured down my throat, in my eyes.  It is stifling and stiff and sore.  It is hard to move or think.  It is foggy and cloudy and misty and bad.  It is bad.  It feels so bad to feel like this.

 

I want this post to have a point, and it just doesn’t.  There are just real problems in the world, and this isn’t one of them.