It may have been a mistake to sign up for this, but oh well, too late for regrets. So much going on this week especially, but hopefully it will slow down to a reasonable pace.
But my writing habit has… nearly vanished over the spring and summer. And I don’t want to go into NaNoWriMo cold turkey, and hopefully I’ll get at least a few back-up posts out of this.
The assignment for day one of Writing 101 was to free-write for 20 minutes, and the optional part was to post it on your blog.
When I finished, I really didn’t want to post it. But the things going through my head right now are affecting the way I react to people, and affecting what I can accomplish, so maybe you guys (my regular readers) need to know.
If the assignment had been for 40 minutes… this probably could have gotten scary. Read with a shaker of salt, please. A single grain won’t be enough.
Late. I feel like I am always running late these days, and it’s annoying and frustrating because I was raised to always be prompt.
I’m late with this ‘assignment’ – in the loosest sense of the word, of course. There are no grades hinging on my completion of it, just my sense of self accomplishment that is practically non-existent these days.
It’s so close to bedtime already, and I’ve only just found the time to write. And even though I’ve accomplished so much today – the weekly menu and grocery list, collecting Grandma’s grocery list, playing with the dog, medicating the cat… showering, neatening the house, making dinner… – I feel like I haven’t accomplished anything that really matters.
My life has become a series of chores, both chores to maintain my own home, and chores to maintain the lives of those I care about.
Though sometimes, because of the repetition of those chores, I grow to resent those I’m supposed to care about.
And now my phone is ringing.
Always when I sit down and finally start writing.
It’s Grandma, of course. Who else on a Tuesday night.
The question is if she will leave a message, or if she’s going to call me back multiple times, or if she’s going to start calling everyone else in the family because I didn’t answer my phone.
But the phone ringing disturbed the dog. He had been quietly focused on chewing his bone. And now my 20 minutes of writing time are… disturbed.
Because of responsibilities.
Always responsibilities. I have to let the dog out back now, and according to my timer I’ve written for 6 undisturbed minutes.
It appears that Grandma has actually left a voicemail this time, but I won’t check it until I’ve written for 14 more minutes. Neither will I let the dog in until that time has passed.
I’m allowed to be selfish, right?
At least a little.
If I’m not selfish, then I simply become the invisible one… and I have felt so invisible these days.
I cook and clean and buy groceries, take care of the animals and the garden, with rarely a thank you from my husband, and an overabundance of thank you’s laced with the silent claws of guilt from my grandmother.
What would we do without you? We’d probably starve! Thank you for getting the groceries this week.
What do I do when I want to have children?
I’m so tired already.
And I don’t think most people understand it when I say I’m so tired.
I’m so tired I can’t think most days. Which stunts my creativity, and then I feel like I’m starving. Or suffocating.
I live for stories.
But my life rarely allows the time for them, it seems.
Another interruption. My husband tries to loan out a movie of mine. No. That’s my movie. He doesn’t even watch it. I bought it with my own money, scrounged up from odd jobs and hoarded gift cards. Mine.
I feel selfish, and yet I never accomplish the things I truly want to. Why?
Why can I not stand up and focus on something for more than 20 minutes at a time before I need to lay down because I feel so weak?
Why can I not write for 20 minutes without more than one interruption?
Why can I not get everything accomplished in a single day that I need to?
I wonder how much of this might be depression – there’s certainly the signs of it.
But I wonder how much of it is actually something wrong, and I wonder what lengths I will have to go to, to find a doctor who will listen to me.
I am frustrated that I have two people who share a house with me – heck, my husband shares my bed – and yet neither of them seem to see that I feel so… invisible.
I’m everyone’s maid, and no one’s joy.
I spend so much time doing things for everyone else, that by the time there’s a moment to do something for myself, I no longer have the strength to do what I really want.
And so I waste time, trying to find some hidden reserve inside me that is still creative. Still energetic. Still young.
I’m not even 30 yet. I shouldn’t feel this old.
Also, why can I not churn out this many words this quickly in November? I could write two novels so easily in that case.