She Runs Away (and Babbles)

 

The one where I bare all. And even show the dead skin flakes from constant nose blowing.

 

I suppose I’m depressed. I don’t know. Maybe what I’m feeling is a combination of mental and physical exhaustion, existential angst and hormonal flux. But what I do know is that I’m near tears, snapping at my kids, perpetually angry at my husband and sick of it all.

 

Keeping this blog’s taught me many things. Chiefly, that I’m a complainer and a look-at-the-down-sider. Seeing those traits so black and whited in front of me has been hard, I’ll admit it. And now I’m going ahead and writing how I’m depressed, which seems to me is more complaining, more pessimism.

 

And I’m sorry. But there you have it.

 

 

I just need to say it. Because the one thing I can’t do, could never do successfully, is hide who I am.
I admire authenticity in other people, and while I’ve never adopted it 100% for myself, I strive to. Mostly, I can’t put the mask on. And I so wish I could sometimes. But again: there you have it.

 

I’m sorting out how I’m feeling right now and still don’t know what to think. I’m emotional to a fault and put a lot of stock in my feelings, which bites me in the ass at times, because feelings are neither right nor wrong, and to let them guide your life is folly. Or so I’ve been told. But still, what I’m feeling is tired, bored, trapped.

 

There. I said it. When I was unattached, I dealt with my fleeting angst by running away.
Usually, I’d move. Ended up I moved about every two years — to Chicago, to Los Angeles, to anywhere but here. And now, I can’t do that. So I’m itchy. I’m wondering what comes next. Is this all? How do I “experience” life if it’s all the same every day?

 

That’s the thing. I’m just drowning under the sameness. Like I said before, my days are picking up toys, cooking, cleaning…etc., and I’m daunted by the prospect that each day will be like the one before it. And if I weren’t so tired, I’d be pawing at the cage. This isn’t to say I don’t love my family, because I do. I’m reminded of a Lisa Loeb song that says, “Everybody feels this way sometimes, and everybody feels this way…And I do…”

I can’t speak for everybody, but I can’t help but think (or hope) that everybody does feel this way sometimes. Because if everybody did feel this way sometimes, I wouldn’t think that I was such a heel for having these feelings. That it’s normal, and OK.

 

So I do love my family. And if I had the money, I’d take us all on a trip. Or buy a home abroad and live there with them for six months out of every year. Just to shake things up.

 

But it’s not just that. I’m unsettled in other ways. Like I said, this blog has opened my eyes more fully to who I am. And I don’t like all that I’m seeing, but am confused about how to take the steps to make me better. I often accuse my husband of being “negative,” or “critical,” but now realize, he is indeed my mirror. I’m mad at him for being like me. And what do I do about that? I’m already exhausted, now I have to add “being a better person,” to my list? It’s already on my blog under “Road to Oprah,” but as you can see, that particular section hasn’t been updated in months.

 

I think mainly, it’s that I don’t know how to proceed from here. How do I change my life to be more like I want it to be? How do I heal myself? How do I stop mumbling under my breath, “Here’s your f-ing teddy bear,” to Booger, because I’m mad that her screaming is making me crazy? And WHY is her screaming making me crazy? What kind of mother am I?

 

What kind of person am I? What kind of writer? I had well-formed ideas of all these labels, and I turned out to be none of them. I thought I was so much better than I’m turning out to be. And maybe that’s the rub. Can’t run away from that.

 

And since I keep pointing to my blog in this post, I have to say that it’s been so positive, so constructive, for me. I’m able to peek inside my own life, and am amazed at how much I have to be thankful for, that I just used to gloss over. Plus, I guess there’s people out there who never see themselves for who they are, and are given the impetus to change. My blog has done that for me. With that, comes the attendant frustration of having to change. And I think that’s what I’m struggling with…

 

And now, I’m off the point, aren’t I?

 

I didn’t think I’d publish this today. But I will anyway. I can’t hide who I am. And you should know that about me.

 

 

(Comments off because I don’t want anyone to feel they must respond to my melancholy.)

{UPDATE: OK. Now I feel like a dork that I went all Dooce on you with the closed comments. Sorry. I thought that I did it because I didn’t want anyone to feel they had to respond…but a good friend pointed out that maybe I was trying to pretend my “depression” didn’t exist and that wasn’t very authentic of me (she put it much nicer and not exactly like that), but either way, I think she’s right.} {And thank you for your special personal messages. Really, so much.}