Sometimes the concept of blogging just totally freaks me out. It’s so… publishy. My thoughts are online, visible to the public, and I feel committed to them then. Like yesterday I was all aglow about being a mom and a women in her thirties and now I feel like a colossal mess and it’s like I defined myself as that person I was yesterday but today I’m different and yesterday’s posts feel oppressive.
The mess feeling? It’s origin? No earthly idea. I’m just crazy. And possibly bored. Like Bored with Everything. Restless. Being in the office on a sunny spring day is unhealthful. I’m also mentally beating the shit out of myself about absolutely nothing of consequence and this is not good.
I want to be a person who has small, warm, comfortable thoughts. I don’t like negotiating the gulf between my giant supernova thoughts and my whispering black ice thoughts. I can’t find grey area. This comes of as very manic depressive, but it’s not like that, really. Probably. I’m just tired of thinking in extremes that overwhelm me.
Today I want SSRI’s. Instead I will walk out into the very pretty sun for a minute and breathe. Regroup. It’s comforting to have that filter now- to see that I need to refocus myself and trust that it’ll probably work. Used to just lie there spinning for days on end.
Edit: Small shot of sunshine and a quick chat with Laura did wonders. Am now so much better that I think I’d like to delete this post but am not, because it was real and me and it’s nice to have here so i can go back and say, “You know what? Wigginess is temporary. Carry on.”
I’m so eyeball deep in the January Funk. I feel like my limbs are lead and my brain is opiated. I want to eat bread and butter by the loaf, or maybe two or three pizzas, and enough chocolate to boost entire South American economies. I want to lie in bed with TV & movies and sleep until May.
Damn parenthood. I can’t. I am grateful for Her Pixiness and the cuteness and perkiness of her, but it’s like swimming against the current or walking up a really steep hill to resist my whole being wanting to coccoon.
Interestingly enough, it’s been unseasonably warm today and yesterday. This is depressing me more, sitting in an office and knowing that by the time I get home it’ll be dusk and cold again. I have a horrible laziness with house stuff after work, and when it’s dark out it’s so much worse. whinewhinewhinewhine.
Ah! New moon. This is PMS, the extra SAD-enhanced version. Lovely. OK. So, one minute at a time, gentle internal crazy-girl pep talks, attempts to force the Wiccanself to appreciate All Four Seasons
even the one that is longandstupidanddarkandevilcold and try to reframe my day to day stuff as small comforting rituals. The house is a sacred hearth to be nested and nurtured, not a disgusting pit of filth and cluttered sanity-stealing chaos. Repeat until I believe.
Am running seriously low on self-talk positive energy be a human being at all mojo. Must. Resist. The Funk.
Nag Champa incense is the scent of my authentic self. I didn’t realize this until Marianne’s beautiful package arrived from Sonoma. This mama is an incredible gifter. I’m so floored by this stuff I can’t believe it. And it all smells like the Nag Champa she included:) This is the secent of my mom, of my first apartment, of dating Bu and sex and stoned immaculate moon-eyed wild new love. I have been in a radically different mindset since her package arrived. Also included is an adorable little tin with homeopathic stress gummies! These little darlings are wicked- seriously, they are rocking my crazy parts like a swaddled baby. I’ll post photos soon of the three of us in our compliments-of-Busha-hats:) Molly and me have hats she knitted for us and Bu has one from Nepal. Bu loves Nepal. His fascination with the region is partly why he’s my Buddha. (Again, it’s not about the belly.)
Along with general creative mojo flowing Continue reading
How does she know? Why does she always pick Sunday nights for Super Extreme Freakouts? Do all babies of working moms have this innate sense of mommy’s need for clarity on Re-Entry to Workforce Day?
We were awake, in tears (yep, both of us) from 10 p.m. until 1:30 a.m. I still have no idea what the hell was wrong with her but my tears were from the crazed, terrified confusion, very brand-new-mama-esque, of not knowing what to do to help my tiny screaming creature who clearly needed something but couldn’t tell me what. (Except to sign more! more! but she signs that roughly 1,234,890 times a minute.) Whatever the demon was that had her, it was exorcized spontaneously- finally- and we crashed hard.
My lifestyle sucks. Bu and I are having a meeting to discuss time management, budget, chores, etc. I can’t be exhausted anymore. Must fix this. I do think that if I clear away the hormonal hysteria* and my all-or-nothing attitude that we can arrange our world in a saner way. If we can’t then I’m going to sell the baby or the husband to the gypsies. Or eBay maybe.
*I feel anti-feminist** to talk about my insanity during my cycle. I am seriously a different person, though. It sucks. I’m thinking about getting back on some hormonal birth control. I read about some herbal therapy though… but it doesn’t kill two birds. The idea of another baby is all cute for 10 seconds and then I think I’d jump off a bridge. I’d make sure the gypsies found a good home for Bu & the Boue first, of course.
**Because I’m an insane overthinker and debate the intricacies and ramifications of fucking everything, including a deceptively simple blogpost about being tired and cranky during my period. Because I’m that effing crazy.
OK, if I’d had a recent miscarriage, or ever had one, or lost a child or anything of the sort that might explain why I just had a huge sobbing cry listening to “Playboy Mommy.” It’s dangerous to neglect one’s Tori-listening for way too long. I lost the desensitization necessary to hear someone practically cut her womb and brain and heart out and let me listen.
Just finished From the Choirgirl Hotel. Visiting with Liitle Earthquakes now, and I will probably need intense therapy afterward. Oh Goddess, why the PMS? I’m down with the bloody moon synch groove, I’m OK with the fucking acidtrip of an idea that made you think I needed two vaginas & cervixes even. But seriously, why the hell do I have to be a snotty wet psychotic exposed nerve for seven days a month?
Somebody come lock up the henna. (I look vaguely ill with red hair but it’s calling me. Damn you Tori! Actually it’s a chestnut color but it has henna in it so I’m pretty sure it’d be redder than the box says.)
w00t! Lexie just called! Squee! Hi Lexie:)
Even when Bu goes streaking through the house and pulls me from my slouching-in-chair to do our family-of-boo trademark happy dance. It’s not terrible. I didn’t spend the day in tears or anything, just still feel like the color in my energy and perception is turned down a couple of notches.
It was a good simple morning. I made a bunch of tortillas and flatbread to boost my fiber- started doing Weight Watchers with borrowed books & stuff. (Trying the nursey mom points for a week or two and maybe adjust since I’m not a round the clock nursing/pumping mom now. She won’t usually nurse during the day at all now.) I love my little bread training wheels so much I got some yeast and more whole wheat flour and will do a real loaf tomorrow. It’s awesome therapy, Molly at my feet saying ball (“Bah-aah-aaawwwwwwlllll”) and playing with chunky plastic beads while I roll out tortillas and think about Demeter and anthropology and nutrition. Brain never stops. Wondering how people eat the white boring ick Bu calls bread? is Demeter the Goddess of Flaxseeds and Omega-3 too or just corn? How did the species survive without baby gates and pop beads? Can I count half points?
Then we went shopping and I ate the best pear in the world. Still feel only like 65% present. Just translucent a little but thick. Slug person is what Aunt P says I am when I’m in my little hole.
Very tired. Will go curl up now up to Bu and feel like I’m stealing his warm comforting touch like a succubus. I’ll snap out my funk any minute now. Maybe I need a canteloupe. Chocolate no help at all, therefore very serious depression. /smirk
I feel a kind of loud, heavy aloneness. Angry at the universe that took my mama away and is leaving little holes in Grandma’s memory and sense. Bitter that I have to mother the baby to sleep while Bu has beers and music at friends’. I said it was OK; didn’t know the house would start to shrink around me and I’d feel like I have lead for blood.
No more words, just enough energy to scratch my initials in the ether. Reach out to the air with disembodied half expressed thoughts.
Say, I’m here, feeling sluggish and clogged and un-everything, and this is my reality this moment. Dear diary. Dear electronic penpals. Dear other tired moms and Dads:
I’m tired, I’m worried, and I’m scared kind of. I know this, the paralyzing nothing in my hands and toes and mirror. It’s worse than the shaking buzzing panic, but it’s better than it was when I was half my age and I first felt it. Better because I know I can breathe through it and never lose my center. Better because a tiny child’s cry will pierce it in an hour or a few and I’ll be a little satellite around her and the tiny new world of her will be my gravity. Better because my husband who has lovely laughter etched around his eyes will come and he will act a monkey fool to make me smile. I have milk to feed my daughter and I can’t stuff my holes with drink and pills and we’ll all be OK this time. I have a new book, with daisies not demons and people to read it. They leave me notes like little folded greeting cards and they make me know the isolation is in my head where it always was. I know myself better, inside out, and I’m knowing my world and letting it spin. Light after dark, always. Always.