The stuff that gets in the way.

So, I have a confession: I have been having a hard time keeping my shit together lately.  See also: Hashimoto’s Thyroiditis (fatigue, joint pain, muscle weakness, hair loss, and more!), See also: Miscarriage Anniversary Looming, See also: Financial Distress, See also: Marital Issues, See also: I’m a headcase.

And it is true that I have had something like Writer’s Block for some time.  I have long spaces of time when I believe I have nothing to say that you will be interested in reading.  I sit down and think, “Surely I can come up with something!” And I open a text file and I stare at it, thinking.  Nothing comes.  Nothing is worth coming.

Then, other nights, I write things, posts, in text files and then I do not publish them.  Because they suck.  You would think they are stupid. (So I tell myself.) This would be more like Sharer’s Block? Blogging Anxiety? I Suckaphobia?

And then there are all the things that won’t come when I sit down to write them to you because there are other things that block them – things I can’t talk to you about.  What I mean by that is I have issues I WANT to share with you, but it feels weird to talk about this thing when I know I haven’t told you about thoooose things.

Do I write about those things?  Hell yes I do.  Is the writing good?  I think so.  Will I share it with you?

I can’t.

Some things you just can’t post to the world because they aren’t only yours to post, does that make sense?

But the more of those things that I have, the harder it gets for me to come here and talk to you about everything else, like my friends.  That’s kind of how I’ve always felt when writing these posts.  I know it’s somewhat silly to think that way, and I’m not trying to be mushy and sentimental to win you over.  It’s just the tone I always feel inside when I write to YOU.

This is not an academic essay I’m writing – though I can write those, I’ve completed tons of them in my time, and none too shabby, I’ll have you know.  It’s not a performance piece, where I just need to elicit emotion with whatever works.  It’s not fiction, where I can spin any tale just to delight.  It isn’t a review, where all I really have to do is lay out the way it works and what I think of it.

It’s an ongoing conversation I’m having with you about my life.

When there are bumps that invariably happen from my life intersecting with the lives of others, sometimes I can’t talk about those bumps.  Because it’s not my place to have the conversation that they might or might not want to have with you about THEIR lives.

So then, I guess I just have to say, Friends, there is(are) something(s) that is(are) affecting me in some way(s) that we can’t talk about.  And now I have to find a path around that(them) so I can keep talking to you about my other life stuff.

And that’s hard for me to do.  I’m emotional and the things I experience have a way of leaking and spilling out onto the rest of my life.  I should learn to compartmentalize more.  I don’t know.

And maybe this whole thing seems STUPID to you, because “DUH, LOTUS. We ALL have things we keep to ourselves.  We ALL have stories we don’t tell everyone.  Hell, most people don’t feel the need to tell everyone half the shit you think the world needs to know.  I mean, really, you tell us practically every time you have your period. GET A FILTER.”  And OKAY, FINE.  But the thing is, I’m still developing as a writer and a blogger.  This place defined itself to me from the start as My Blog: Where I Tell You What Runs Through My Head.  My idea of “what this is” has changed.  I can’t tell you what runs through my head when I’d have to tell you that Mr. C did horrible thing Y and I want to strangle his face until it turns blue and falls off.  Because you know, Mr. C has privacy rights.   I can’t tell you that I have a constant issue with Problem ABC and I think it’s because Mrs. W did batshit crazy thing X and it impacted me in a really profound way.

I can tell you about how I feel, but I can’t always tell you why. And that’s kind of douchey.  But Mr. C and Mrs. W own their own stuff, and I can’t tell it for them.

My family and friends have privacy rights.  Those assholes.

So let’s just say, that among other things, it’s taking me time, in fits and spurts to keep telling you my stories without telling you their stories.

Maybe one day there will be a time to talk about those things.  Perhaps there never will.  I’m trying to find a way to be okay with that and hoping I can just move past it.

I’m learning that it IS okay not to tell you everything (zomg) but I have to say it out loud for some reason.  I think, if I say this out loud right now, it’s going to help me move this block.

For now, maybe just saying to you that I’ll tell you most of everything, but not some stuff, will help me climb over this boulder, that mountain, and occasionally kick those rocks out of my way, so we can keep walking this path together.

I mean, it would be such a shame to miss the colors this season with you.  The foliage is so beautiful just up ahead.

I like to be alone. (translation: I am oh-so-screwed.)

I’ve always been happy spending large portions of time by myself.  In fact, I prefer it to being around other people a lot of the time.

I don’t get “bored” from being alone.  Never have.  I can always come up with some way to entertain myself when there is no one else around.  Really.  In fact, I usually don’t get to the majority of things I’d like to do all by myself, there are so many.

There are lots of labels that we try to fit on people who feel this way… “anti-social,” “introverted,” “weirdo.”

The thing is, I’m not all together anti-social, introverted, or weird.

I can be rather social, outgoing, and extroverted.

It’s just that I really enjoy time to myself.  Introspection.  Downtime.  Whatever.

This has been the hardest thing for me about becoming a mother.

I see you nodding.

I am very rarely alone.  Even during those oh-so-special times when you think no one else would even WANT to be around you, as a mother, you often have a guest.

“Why no, I didn’t want to pop a squat alone, why would I want to do that?  Come along, little one, and watch me poop.”

And what of taking showers?  Either you

a. just don’t shower

b. have a munchkin in there with you, or

c. the moment water hits your skin, there is one howling from another room.

They wait until you’re trying to scrape the filth of many days from your skin to have complete breakdowns.  That, or to mortally wound themselves.  They do it on purpose, you realize.

[The parental units must not be allowed to refresh themselves.  This is part of The Plan.  This is part of how they break us down.]

And what if your other half occasionally decides to hang out with the spawn in the morning so you can sleep in a bit?  You can’t get any decent snooze time anyway, because you can hear them carrying on in a loud manner.  At least if you’re in my home.  Where Screamie McGee resides.  There is no waking moment invulnerable to being sporadically punctuated by a shrill report.

The downtime – it’s just not the same anymore, is it, folks?

A trip to the grocery store alone has become almost as enjoyable as only, um… other things should be.

“I’m going to run out and get a few things from Kroger.  I’ll be back soon.”

“Okay.”

Pause.

“I thought you were going to Kroger?  Why are you standing there with that glazed look in your eyes?”

“Oh. Sorry.  Yes.  I was overcome with desire and anticipation at the idea of not being screamed at when I stop the cart to pick something out.”

*wipes drool off lip and gets car keys*

While I absolutely believe it is worth it, and I wouldn’t trade this life for any other - sometimes, I would really like to have time alone again.  Know what I mean?

So, in the face of all this, how do you keep your sanity?  What do you do to find some time alone?