My head is pounding. My neck is stiff. And, my eyes are cursing at me, wondering why I am on the computer.
But here I am. I haven’t written in months (cue the record player to repeat). I feel as though I am accomplishing nothing within my life. So, I figured if I wrote then I could pat myself on the back.
I don’t know who I am anymore. Yes, a mother and a wife. But, is it bad to say I am tired of being a stay at home mom? I feel worn out with my life on repeat. Yet, how is a job going to change that? Or what else will change that? Isn’t our lives one big static routine? I used to be a good stay at home mom. Playdates? Check. Three scheduled meals and two snacks a day? Check. Adventures outdoors? Check. Arts and crafts? Check. Dusting? Check. Vacuuming? Check. I’m sure you see where I am going with this. Now. I’m sluggish and hating the mundane in routine. I don’t want to do it. Why? I’ll just do it again tomorrow. And if not tomorrow, the next day. It will happen.
I try not to let myself succumb to feeling of failure while reading what other moms are doing on social media. They can do it. They do it. They don’t complain (publically). Why aren’t they struggling or pissed off of the same static routine? Am I that pathetic? Is this my depression? More than likely. I know.
I feel ashamed for wanting more than raising beautiful, kindhearted, and educated children. I have desires that I want to pursue but as I think about doing them, I feel like I am a failure as a mother and I become ravished by darkness. If I can’t do it all then I don’t want to do anything. That is my problem.
I’m pretty great at letting my insecurities fester and eat me alive. And by doing this, I am forgetting about the importance of the ones around me. I used to have this bubbly personality. It bubbled out. Ha! I still got it. But, in all seriousness, fuck my insecurities. I mean, come on! I cannot let this shit always control my life. Five years from now, I don’t want to be living this life of constant moments of self-doubt. I’ve been battling this since July of last year and I’m fatter, sadder, angrier, and just overall unpleasant. What in the hell will I be in five years if I continue with this life?
And this is the beauty of writing. Already, I feel small pebbles of self-doubt and anger falling off my shoulders. Venting. Expressing. Art. Creativity. These are my saviors that I need not forget that will allow my redemption to take place.