Me, last Monday.What a God awful weekend. Yesterday was horrible. Gray skies, and cold wind, and no wonder I haven't taken my child for a walk since Tuesday.
We bundled up, and ventured out, though. She discovered the rake, and I suppose I discovered it too, considering the fact I forgot we even owned one. She went to sweeping up leaves and dragging 'em around. Sticking the metal teeth into big holes all scattered about the soft yard.
Don't hurt yourself, I said a million times.
She ignored me, and said, I got it, Mommy. I can do it!
And went about her raking, as I eventually ignored her too, getting lost in my own messy head.
I wish I could shrink myself down, along with the rake, and get to work on all the papers flying around in there. I'd make a big pile for burning, though I don't suppose lighting a fire in your head would be wise, and Baby Girl would probably just tromp through it before I could get it lit.
So instead of shrinking and burning, or distracting my child from her newfound talent, I started thinking of game plans, as far as writing is concerned. It's the same battle-with-myself as it has been for nearly a year now: "I want to write a blog. No, I should write a novel. What about a short story. God knows I need to edit. Why don't I try to get published. And I need to write letters. I need to clean house. I need to pay bills..." [Giant explosion goes off in Ashley's head].
Back inside, I did all the stupid things I'm supposed to do, even on a Saturday night, and wouldn’t it be nice to actually have a date. Or do something fun. Something creative!
No, I cooked and cleaned, and put Baby Girl to bed around nine-thirty. I went to my room and ran a bubble bath, complete with music, a knife (in case someone breaks in), a notebook and an ink pen. I thought I might try writing in the tub.
I didn't work.
My notebook got wet, and then I was sadder than I was before. Sat crying in this mountain of bubbles; trying so hard to pretend someone was standing there near the counter just to cheer me up, but I couldn’t. I'm
too lonely. Like getting so sleepy you can't even sleep. You pass a certain point, and then you're overtired.
I'm overlonely.
I just wish I could figure it all out, and stop being so damn childish and jealous of everyone else who has time and energy for their own wants and needs at the end of the day. Or at the beginning.
How am I supposed to get it all done, and be happy with myself?
I climbed into bed and called a close friend. I nibbled on crackers, and flipped through the channels (Yes, I finally put a TV in the bedroom, despite my better judgment). I told him how I worked all day, but didn't even come close to getting everything done, and I had to get some sleep so I could wake up and write. How my writing has turned to crap considering the fact I didn't write at all (or very little) over those stupid six weeks, and was so scared if I didn't put something decent on this blog, I'd lose all my friends because why would they want to read a poorly-written blog? I'm so scared they'll all hate me anyway.
This is when my friend started yelling at me, which I obviously deserved.
I listened, crying on my pillow, watching a Ladybug crawl up and down the wall as I interjected the occasional "Yes, I know. I'm crazy."
After he finished his rant, he became very patient again, and started listing all my faults and how to fix them.
I love friends like this. They see things I can't. Like a writer reading someone else's work. I'll catch every single mistake you make, but in my own story, I continue reading what I
think I’ve written versus what is actually on the page.
He says I'm just paranoid. And nobody hates me. And if I don't have time for everything, prioritize, and don't feel guilty or selfish. And people won't quit being my friend just because my writing is bad.
Didn't they stick around while you were gone? he asked. You act like they didn't.
In my own head, I'm so scared people regret sticking around (not only here, but in my real life too) . That they should leave, and that's why I sometimes act as if they already have.
He told me to stop thinking like that, and to quit crying. Go to bed. Wake up and make some time for yourself.
Which I just did. But now I'm off to get dressed and go to Wal-Mart by myself. Thank God! I
need a vacation from my child and this house, and the sun's finally out for the first time since Tuesday.
I only wish I could shake the feeling that a million other things have gone undone and unsaid, both offline and on, and how does everyone do everything for everyone? Especially themselves.
Local Cemetery
