Day 73
Another trip for groceries. Then.
More hammock time with a book. Another walk to the park. Bench time by the river. Audiobooks. Music. All of these are things I’d do anyway, pandemic or no. But now I do all, almost daily. But I don’t feel a sense of relaxation, even when I’m swinging in a hammock, head propped on a pillow, book on my lap. I always, ALWAYS have a list in my head of the THINGS that need doing.
I realize I thought it might be different this week. My workplace is closed. I am on a mandatory staycation. And I can’t remember a time when I’ve had a week off and nowhere to go, nothing to prepare for. No one else’s schedules to manage. And I have spent time seemingly relaxing. Engaged in activities that could be categorized as relaxing. I watched an episode of Little Fires Everywhere yesterday. Alone. In my bedroom. With the door shut. But, mostly, life is much the same. Except I’m not on Zoom, not on email, not doing my job.
I am an overthinker. And with the slowing of everything — the focused time at home, in one place, always in the company of the same four people, I find myself thinking ABOUT my thinking. And, the truth: It’s unsettling. I’m realizing that I have assumed, since launching myself into motherhood, that time was to blame for me not achieving my own personal goals. Or lack of time. And achieving is too generous. Really, I’ve been operating under the misguided “truth” that if only I had more time — to myself in a place that was just for me — I could finish something. A writing project. A home project. An update to my resume. Now. Here I am, undeniably with more time, and I have chosen, or defaulted, to spend it doing all the things I already was doing. Reading. Walking. Cooking. Occasionally cleaning the bathrooms. And here, even as I write regularly, publicly, the words here do not apply to my unfinished manuscripts. They don’t even frame a new one. They are merely thoughts on a page, the product of an activity I’ve engaged in since I could set pen to page, since my very first Snoopy diary, complete with a tiny lock and key.
I have always been a little bit disappointed in myself. That is a sad sentence to write. The truth of it is sad. And feels indulgent in a way. What did I expect of myself? I have attained the wish I held dearest: to be a mother. And, I am a good mother. And. Also. The parts of me that aren’t the mother parts feel lost sometimes. Unfinished. Exposed.
Should I feel fortunate to face my truths? I would rather do so than not. And yet, to know that I am my biggest blockade now is to feel a sense of dread. What is stopping me now? Is the lack of space, and quiet, enough? Am I looking for excuses? Do I not really want what I tell myself I do? A homier home. A fully edited manuscript. An organized closet. A clean kitchen floor.
Is my most significant characteristic my honed ability to procrastinate, to deny myself the possibility of being sated?
Is it just easier to pick up a book and retreat to the hammock than to do anything else?
That is a rhetorical question.
Am I selfish for thinking so much about me when nearly 100,000 people have died, leaving hundreds of thousands more grieving their loss?
It feels like it.
Stay safe, everyone.