getting back on that (dead) horse

in the new year of 2013, i blogged once per day, every day. my original intent was threefold: to regain a sense of purpose in my daily routine, to form wispy thoughts into elegant phrases with growing ease, and to remember my days as worthwhile (whether naturally or cast in brannan lighting.) as the new year faded into the old year, my writings became scattered, rushed, whiny, with posts few and far between of which i was proud.

this year i shrugged off my obligatory tasks: daily writings, steady paychecks, clean food, consistent fitness, being nice for nice-ness’ sake… and what of it?

not writing everyday means it is much more difficult to write when i want to (see the last few posts: stilted, jaded, failing to capture that wide range of emotions that wring my heart.) not writing means i have more trouble remembering: my joy at the bean’s little kicks; the precise moment A convinced me, once again, that he loved me; our elation when we heard that sweet emerson is slowly making his way into this wide world, already at the +1 station (only 4 more to go); my belief that somehow boomer will know before we do when he’ll be born and my resultant insistence on monitoring her every leap and cuddle and aggressive growl. not writing everyday means my future self loses its chance of pouring over records of her past. she’s free to remember as she will. and with that freedom, as with any freedom, comes great responsibility. will she remember the happy times? will she forgive the sad? will she simply live in her present?

i cannot see the future; i am no sage. but extrapolating from this present KT, i believe the daily writings are beneficial. i must simply forgive myself when they are bollocks or crass or juvenile or trash, holding firmly to the belief that i will improve.

that loss of a steady paycheck: it symbolized everything i desired for three long years. i believed it would bring with it freedom. instead i experience fear and a deep sense of shame. i believed i would finally spend my days living. i find i spend my days much as i always did. i believed i would crow in elation at filling my seconds as i so chose, and i believed i would devote these to bettering myself. i feel stagnant, gripped by terror, desperately trying to keep breathing in the torrent of uncertainty surrounding me. is this a reflection of reality or my perception of it? was i so naive? i am being dramatic; there are certainly times i am incandescently happy. the question is: was the great sacrifice necessary?

it is made, so the only thing left to do is to make the most of it.

clean food, consistent exercise: i am brimming with excuses for my pregger state. i eat cereals and sugars because if i don’t, i fear i won’t eat anything at all. i tell myself i don’t have a strict pullup because i’m carrying a small child.  in fact it feels more as though i’m lazy and full of bs. all i want is bean’s health, and i know to get that i must maintain mine. sure it is difficult as the cravings and aversions rage, as my body begins to feel foreign; but it is never impossible. guilt weighs heavy: is he so small because of something i’ve done?

being nice for niceness’ sake made me feel like a good person, a person with whom noone should have any reason to quarrel. it never did work, and i always wondered: why? now that i’ve thrown it to the wind, i feel less a fake. but what is left? a person whom i don’t particularly like. a person who voices her petty opinions more often than not. a person who thinks to much of people, who thinks too much of what people think of her. a person who acts the hypocrite, though she stopped her feigned niceties to be exactly the opposite. a person in whom rages the war between the prayer of St. Francis of Assisi and the philosophies of Ayn Rand. most of all, what is left is a person who is looking for a new shield against this world; a person who wonders whether it is better to stand naked a she came.

i suppose, in the end, everything has its good and its bad. everything is some mutable shade of gray, shifting in the changing light. everything is nonsense, and everything is truth.




2 thoughts on “getting back on that (dead) horse

  1. As I read this I sense a heavy feeling of being suspended in the “in-between”. You know me and my love of nicknames…I think of you as Little One. And with that, what I want to say is: the “in-between” is uncomfortable for the mind and spirit but know that all will be well, Little One.

    • Thank you warrior girl; that is, I think, exactly where I am. Thanks for your encouragement and your friendship. Happy to be your Little One :)

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