I have to be careful now about how, why, and when I let myself fully feel. I have to think of how it will effect my body. Sick mommy cannot do all the things I have to do. But, as I said, I cannot stop these things from happening to me. I AM Sick Mommy. I can’t change that, so I find myself non-stop attempting to control everything else. Meanwhile, I feel that I’m undergoing a season of change, of inner updating. I’m like an app that has been begging for updates. Dang it, though; I just don’t have time to stop and do it! I feel the clunky lurches of forward motion in my soul, steps in my maturation. New dreams are trying to form, but I’m so afraid to let them. I feel I don’t have time for new ideas, new energies, new creativity because I’m just so darn busy trying to survive my illness and keep the kids going. I don’t want to take from them (though I know it is a myth, a lie, that time spent on my development will cause a deficit to theirs, I behave like I think it’s truth). And it isn’t just the kids. I am afraid. I’m afraid to change and grow-up. I’m afraid of what the requirements and challenges will be at the next level.
While I’m on the subject of fear, boy, do I have all kinds of new fears lately. I have never been one to feel generally anxious or afraid at all. I’ve always been optimistic and brave, a believer that anything GOOD and FUN could happen. Then, yesterday, we got a letter in the mail from the city. Someone had reported us for our dog’s barking. How freakin’ delightful. I went to pieces immediately. “How can someone do this? Why didn’t they knock on the door? Why didn’t they leave a note? Now I have no idea who it is who is mad at me. I have to just assume that all our neighbors hate us!” I was so far gone, so fast. “What if they hear me yell at the children or see or hear the kids hurt each other, and they report me for that too?!” The whole scenario showed how ready to crack I am. All it took was a minor yet official disapproval to make me fall apart.
I need to crack in a better, safer way, at better, safe times. I want so badly to figure out how to do that. I need to cry more often in safe arms. I need to be angry about my illness and the insensitivity of my city towards women with children. I also need to laugh more, to enjoy, to rejoice, to stop and soak up beauty without a worry about the baby waking or getting the laundry all done or being a couple of minutes late. Oh, how I want to just crack open. Why do I think it will be a gooey mess? I literally envision a black, bird-poop-like ooze issuing forth from my heart. I think that’s wrong though. I think what will come is a rush of ocean. Salty tears that will leave things looking wet but fresher.
