Lately I have found it difficult to write something of deep reflection, as I know my blog posts have become anticipated by those closest to me. Embarrassed at recent events, the view of myself, and scared that sharing my struggles makes me weak, I have seriously been paralyzed to write anything including fiction.
I ran away two months ago. As far as I could. I took what was most dear to me and left because I could not stand idly waiting for something to be different. I had every intention to return, and every intention to work my ass off to fix what had been broken. My family was gracious and sensitive. They did not ask me why, and this made it easy to explain that I was just sad, a common place after having a baby. It was not a lie. I was broken. Shattered.
I came home. I stayed home. I’m still there and will continue to be. I struggle a lot. Some days are far worse than others. Today is no exception. I think that maybe I need a break from everything demanded of me, but I’ve done that already. And when it is over, I have to come back. The demands do not go away, they just pile up. Small doses of self care get me through the day, but when I am diminished to myself, flesh and bone, bare; I feel small, weak and ashamed. I am not nearly as strong and graceful as I have rehearsed and perform daily. I am sad and angry and most of all unfulfilled.
How does one find a healthy retreat that is not simply an illusion? I want to rest my soul. I have read, pinned, and tried so many self care suggestions. Therapy is impractical for my schedule. I keep saying “If I can just finish my book.” But the excuses far outweigh the initiative to make my brain productive.
Being back at work has given me purpose and lets me escape from my other life. Organization and productivity relies very little on other people. I feel like I am ahead and can stay there with ease. At home I am drowning in so many ways. (Not always. There are definitely great days when I feel like super-mom, Betty-Homemaker of the year). But the times in between are valleys that I am clawing to get out alone while carrying the weight of my family. A ladder would make it easier but no less heavy.
So here it is. My first step at getting back to writing. The world loves pain and frailty. These are always my most celebrated posts. And isn’t it the goal of a writer to be read?