May 4, 2011

What a spring it has been. The kid has lead poisoning (still. STILL. always, with the horrible lead poisoning), nico died, and it has rained buckets to fill up my soul and my garden for the better part of the last thirty-one days. Work is dragging me down too, though I never mention it. Tearing me up and spitting me out. It clouds my outlook when I go home, which I hate more than anything. The unconquerable pile of items I need to do outpaces the ones I have the time to do battle with on a reasonable schedule and the stress ratchets its hold on my psyche tighter and tighter every time I'm greeted with yet another task building up the monstrous pile that will someday destroy me. Really it isn't so bad, but I'm hard on myself about it, probably harder than I should be. I push myself to do better, do more, be faster. Frankly my own expectations are completely unreasonable and I need to cut myself some slack. Work is work. But that's easier said than done and it's hard to remember to put into action. All I can see is that what I do is not enough.

My heart is shell shocked to the point of being numb. Nothing moves to and fro in the stillness of my being, no sparks light up with the promising fire of new discoveries. Not that they won't again, just not right now, not right now. It's not that I'm sad, or overcome with depression. I just feel empty. I want to sit and just be. Watch. Wait. Rest. Meditate on meaning. Maybe this is what peace really feels like. Like a hole that have no desire to fill. Pure existence.

Alternately it sounds appealing to do something nice for myself, a lady-like treat to remember what it feels like to actually care about what's going on with me. Something small and precious that I can nurture and grow in the palm of my hand, something to focus on while I take those haggard grasping breaths and something to bloom when the sun finally starts to shine again. However all the things I would like to do are outside my budget– my budget being $0.00. It sure costs a lot to put a dog to sleep. Isn't that a charming reality to puncture a hole in your love balloon and send it crashing back down to earth? It's a whole other thing to hold a bill like that in your hand. Line item cremation, line item death juice, line item 'our sympathies.' (Don't worry, that one cost a whopping $0.00. Though frankly I would have paid them an extra $20 to do a better job at it.)

And yet, as empty as I am, everything is also alright. The days move on, things get done, the schedule is upheld by the court. Last night I turned to Jon as we were getting ready for bed and said, "This is exactly like Groundhog Day, except we have a really cute kid." And it is, the same repetition of event after event driving us forward towards something, though I don't know what that mysterious end point is. When will it stop so I can be for a few minutes? Instead of striding confidently forward I'm scrambling to catch with the the ghost of where I would be if everything didn't keep knocking me back. I would like to stop and pause in this step for a bit and have a look around instead of straining forward.

Every day after work I drive back down towards the city, towards home and my family. Repeat. Repeat. But each time I set foot in that car at the end of the day there's a renewed burning pushing me to hurry, hurry, go, go so that we can be reunited. It smolders inside me cracking underneath the surface and I drive on, pressing myself forward with inhuman force in a rush for no good reason– I just know that we need to be together again so that I can feel complete. Homeostasis reintroduced to the system.

All is well, in one way or another. And also not.

This is honest enough to make me cringe at writing it, but not scraped raw enough to really do the thing justice. Failure. Ratchet tighter.
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