I am so damn tired.
If you ask me how things are, trust that half of whatever answer I give you is a lie. I have no idea how I’m doing. There is no room in my life for me to figure it out: there is no space, no time, no quiet. There isn’t any area of my life that isn’t in chaos right now: I have no safe space, no place I can go to, no refuge.
I’m not sleeping and I’m not eating. I’m not drinking myself silly, though, so hey, at least I’m not dysfunctional! WINNING. I know that statement is inaccurate, but given my family history, I still feel pretty pleased about this.
I’m not sure my “Am I doing okay?” test should be, “I’m not purchasing white zinfandel by the thumb- hole gallon- jug, so I must be doing okay,” … but hey, you know, in case you are wondering, I’m not. By these highly scientific methods, despite my a having a chronic illness, dissolving one business while establishing another, writing a book, working a second job, trying to pick up more writing work, dealing with the holidays, and dealing with the fire- I am still in a better psychological place than my mother.
I don’t want to give myself too much time to think about that statement.
I’m getting things done. I tell myself this means everything is okay, but even as I say it, I know I’m lying. I’m exhausted. Not that it means anything: I can’t change anything about it. I don’t have any time to be exhausted. Work, all work. All this weekend- yarn work tomorrow, yoga work on Sunday, back to daily work on Monday. When I’m not working, I’m working on things to do with the house, or the insurance. There is no time for me. There is no room for me in my life right now.
I am doing what I can to be honest with myself. I am trying to be gentle with the people around me. I can’t seem to extend the real, true, genuine parts of myself out to meet others, but I do everything I can to be kind and gentle and that’s all I can do right now, I think. I try to take the time and analyze my motives. I can’t seem to find the part of me that really connects with people, but I go through the motions, because I know it comforts the people around me, and most of the time they don’t seem to be able to tell the difference.
I find comfort in that, because I like to know that the people around me are comfortable.
I also find that idea so painful, because it seems to say that parts of me that were real- that were really me- were always invisible, but that’s reading into things and that is never a good idea. I’m too sleep deprived to address that set of thoughts logically.
I’ll wake up soon. I’ll snap out of this. I know I will. I’ll keep meditating, and writing, and working, and I will break through this. It will happen any day now.
Any fucking day.