Insight

I’ve just had the realization that I’m dying. Not in the philosophical sense like wow I’m going to inevitably die. I’ve realized that I think I’m dying, or I wish to be dying or maybe that I’m most comfortable on death row. It may be something obvious that strangers will now say, thank god the dumb bitch finally figured it out. But I just realized I live my life like I’m counting my days, my days as a woman, as a mother, as a human being.

I guess for some time I’ve realized that I am hyper aware of the impermanence of things, but I never realized that I might have something in common with cancer patients, middle aged men on sinking ships, suicidal teenage girls. Ok, maybe not all of them. But I have this thing where I smell the roses, touch my children, talk about how short a time we have, too too much. It is an exhausting way to live. I have often wished to be someone who is joyfully unaware of all these things. Of how important life is and how quickly, quietly and often unexpectedly it goes. It is the unexpectedness of it all that I think I dread most. It is the reason I am peeking around every corner. It is the reason I say a prayer at every turn. I hate the idea that everything will disappear. I am sure it will happen in the moment I feel the most love for my children, the most joy for this amazing life I have been given. So while I try my damdest to soak up this life, I’m holding my breathe the whole time. I never really have that moment, where I lose myself to the utter joy – the second I feel it coming on I look over my shoulder for strangers, check the distance for looming tidal waves. Balance is most elusive for me. How do I appreciate all this without being afraid to lose it? I just don’t fucking know. What I know is that I’m counting my days. Numbers often distract a person. Addition, multiplication. While that side of my brain is working overtime, I’m missing the paintings, the waterfalls, the moments where everything lets go and there is nothing to think about but now.

Just words

I just found this I wrote in April and I don't know if I ever posted it...

I think I have a literary disorder. I’m like an anorexic, refusing to allow myself to indulge in writing. Taking every alternative to avoid getting it out. What happens is that it runs through my head constantly. But with no where to rest, it just trickles away and disintegrates.

But I guess I don’t feel skinny like an anorexic. Maybe I’m bulimic. Fat and overindulgent. Full of thoughts and feelings and moments that I don’t, won’t let go of. But I guess then I wouldn’t be fat. So maybe I’m a compulsive eater turning bulimic. Time to start puking all this stuff up.

Have I mentioned I published a magazine? That I’m obsessed with roller derby? That at 1 a.m. last night after waking from a nightmare my now four year old wrapped his arms around my neck and said, “Mama, I’m so proud of you for working so hard.” When I asked what work he said, “Oh, you know, rubbing my back and take care of me and all dat stuff.” Have I mentioned I miss my grandmother? Or that my baby, who is a month and five days from being two, is the most adorable wonderful tiny person I could imagine?

Tonight I’m watching Peggy Sue Got Married on the old VCR in our cabin. I’ll admit it, the movie is a sentimental favorite of mine. Even as a teenager it appealed to me. Going back in time and enjoying what you have. I love how her grandmother calls and she drops the phone, how her sister is shocked when she’s happy to see her. It reminds me to appreciate all this, and to tell the people I love how I feel. Not so long ago I had four grandparents, I am down to one and I haven’t seen her in three months. That needs to change.