I am depressed. I have hit the wall. What I was before was closer to mania, now I have swung the other way, and I can’t even summon up the drive to listen to music. There are over 1,000 unread posts on my bloglines page. I just want to sleep.
It was a collision of things all at once: the pitch I was working on, the Tellings about divorce, the future I was creating for myself, the risk in doing so. The future was so bright it burnt my eyes.
This is what always happens; this is a very familiar wall I’ve run into. I can imagine all the well worn bumps and ridges under my fingers; I have yet to find a crack.
A fog descended. I can’t think. I used to play chess, a long time ago. I was a good beginner, good instincts, I even had an official rating. When the pressure of a team comptetition became too much, I shut down and could no longer think my way around a chess board. I just closed up, lost my instincts. It's so typical of what I do when my potential is in any danger of being challenged.
Now, I can’t even read my own blog, much less post. I am embarrassed by everything I’ve written. I’m so sick of myself.
I’m sitting here writing right now because I know I have to. I know that the only way out is through. I know I have to write my way through this because there’s no other way. So the soil is barren and the sun won’t shine and there hasn’t been any rain for weeks. I still have to grow this garden or I die. My dreams die. My children suffer; a mother with dead dreams will not raise children who know how to be happy.
It was the first shower during labor that really taught me about myself. When I was so pissed because things weren’t going my way, when I didn’t have all the information I wanted and everything else that went wrong, I got in the shower and just distilled. Things became very clear. I could continue to bitch and fight, clawing myself bloody in the process, snatching my dream out of my own hands, or I could do my best despite the circumstances. I could have faith that things would work out, I could focus on what is possible instead of what is missing. It was a very powerful moment for me. I went into that shower tight and angry, and I came out relaxed and happy. I would dance with that damn IV pole. Use what you have, forget everything else.
Right now, my dreams are in danger of joining all those other failed dreams, all those other fresh starts, diets, plans, aspirations. I am beginning to see that future for myself, the one where I slink back into my loveless marriage, back into my fattest clothes, slouchiest posture and pastiest skin, back into please don’t look at me I’m a complete fuck up. And my potential is still out there, waiting. The bright light that burns no matter how gray I get. If I have nothing else, I will always have my potential. It's an easy, safe place to be. "Poor Kate, she tried her best."
I AM SO TIRED OF POOR KATE! Poor Kate and her limitations. Poor Kate and her ADD and her montage of failure and her two babies and her open wound. Oh, poor poor Kate, all Eyeore and droopy-faced. You can’t, she says. You don't have enough education. No one will respect you. You have no time anyway, don't even try.
And now I feel so gray and blocked, I can’t hear myself think because Poor Kate has stuffed my ears with cotton. Don’t listen, she says. You’ll only be disappointed again.