FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!

Hate. I hate the world, I hate life I hate feeling this way. Hate the anger and doubt and incredible sadness and loneliness that I am sure no one in the world can relate to. Hate that there is no way out. Hate that I have everything I ever wanted and still cannot be happy. Hate the fear. Hate the pain. Hate the unknown. Hate

Love my babies. The only reason I stay alive, the only reason I keep going on.

Sleep, glorious sleep!

The classic scene in "Oliver Twist," or at least one version of it that I remember, has Oliver and his orphanage peers singing and dancing with glee over the glorious nature of anything edible and its magical powers on the human spirit. Powers so great that one breaks out in song and dance when they just get a little more food! Sitting here at my computer in my nice, warm home with an abundance of material goods meant to comfort and make life easier, I can only think how overly naive and simplistic that sounds. Surely "MORE FOOD?!" could not make the daily life of those boys that much better.

Or could it?

I guess enough food would be an indicator that times were prosperous- at the very least constant and more predictable and reliable. Enough food means one less obstacle to overcome- one less thing to think about. Knowing you WILL have food is pretty powerful and something that I have never had to give much thought. There has been no time in my life that I ever wondered where my next meal would come from or how I might feed my family.

Sleep, however, is another story.

I want to find the fat men in coats standing guard over the cauldron of sleep and ask, "sir, may I have some more?" Only they wouldn't be fat, they'd be well-rested looking young people with natural energy and a healthy vibe that screams, "I shower in the earlier half of the day!" Thoroughly well-rested ones have even been known to put on make-up and brush their hair. I want to find them... I want to BE them.

But sleep is not the cure-all. Just like food, it's merely indicative of the functionality of one's life. Sleep alone isn't enough to sustain and maximize potential, but when you get enough sleep and KNOW you are going to get more every night, it's just one less thing you have to think about; one less challenge to every day and it makes the times you might have a little less than you'd like just a tad more bearable.

Perhaps it's all just a trade-off, though I do believe that a human body can sustain life longer sans food than sans sleep. But that would be comparing hour after hour with no nutrients to hour after hour with no REM activity of any kind. In any case, it's not that bad but I'd be tempted to say that I have a sleeping disorder. I panic around sleep the way some do around food. I am always afraid I am not going to get enough. If I could hoard sleep I would. Yet, it continues to illude me.

And just like food, sleep carries this guilt with it that boggles my mind. Naps feel like eating a 1000 calorie slice of double-chocolate pudding cake before breakfast. Totally overindulgent, even if it's what one wants! But why? And talking about sleep with anyone who might get less than you or is also unsure of their sleep provisions is almost prohibited, which is a shame since there could be some commiserating amongst the sleep-deprived. Well, if they were awake enough anyway...

The drama, oh the drama

Is it because her brother is going to school now, too? Perhaps. Is it because yesterday was the first day back to school after 2 weeks of vacation? Possibly. Is it because she found out that her brother only goes to school for half a day and she is there a full day? That's a good possibility. Whatever it is, whatever set her off this morning, Maya was out of control and in full drama mode.

Now, I don't like to make mention of her drama and I would never, ever refer to her as a Sarah Bernhardt- even if it was true- because I don't want to perpetuate her behavior, nor do I want her to have to sit in therapy someday talking about the times she really, really needed me to listen to her and all I could do was brush her off and call her names. I've got the market cornered on that pitiful tale and there are at least 3 people in the world right now who could finish my classic rant almost verbatim I've recapitulated it so often. OK, to be fair- I rarely "recap." I prefer complete repetition.

So why was my daughter stricken with tears that, according to her, "she could not stop" or why is it that she refused to use the potty or that she only wanted Daddy when on any other day I have to practically wear a chastity belt to keep her from climbing back into my uterus? Who knows. The important question is how do we handle it? How do Steve and I deal with this behavior? Because guess what? I *really* don't want to fuck up my children. That's a whole lot easier said than done.

I could see it in her eyes and sense it in her voice. She gets it from me. She's heard me. She's seen me cry uncontrollably, scream at Steve, slam doors, scream with such utter desperation- the scream you think you'd scream if ever you were to come across the dead body of a loved one. She's seen me break down all too often and she's witnessed the aftermath. But how she processes what happens in my most panicked times, what she sees and what she understands and how she interprets the wrap-up of one of my attacks, is only a perception- that of a 4 year-old child. All she can really grasp, I can only guess, is that Daddy hugs Mommy and Mommy eventually stops crying. Stands to reason then that she would cry to get what she wants. Why she would scream, "I don't feel well" or " I need a hug I'm sick" doesn't it?

If it were only that simple. If only.

So, as one might have guessed from my last post, these are desperate times and I am determined to make 2010 the year I get my shit together. The year I work on ME so that I can save my children before they realize they need saving. The last year before I turn 40. This is my year, my time to shine again. My time to find joy in what I do or find something else to do. My time to prioritize, and I am starting with my children.

So what happened you ask? Or maybe you don't because, let's face it, no one reads this but me. Well, I looked at her and told her that she had the power to stop crying if she wanted to. She could make the choice to have a happy day or a sad day. She could go to school and think of all the things she likes to do there and think of her friends that she will see or she could go to school with tears and sadness. But either way, she was going to school. Then I wiped her tears, helped her with her coat and bid her farewell and wished for her to have a "good day."

Seems rather cold, doesn't it? Unlike the 2 versions of Mommy she usually gets. Version "A" Mommy commiserates and understands and says how she knows what it's like to feel so sad and that "I know you can't stop crying Maya, I know you can't stop those tears, I know you are sad." Version "A" Mommy is an enabler. Version "B" Mommy gets instantly frustrated and screams about "how lucky" she is to have a school to go to and that she should "suck it up" because the world is not going to cater to her every whim and that "Mommy wishes she had HALF of what YOU have" and how spoiled she is for not appreciating it. Version "B" Mommy is panicked Mommy who only manages to cause more tears and, if left alone with her children long enough, causes at least one child to scream and hit and the other to most likely vomit.

Then Mommy "B" hides and screams and sobs over her failures.

Today was Mommy "C." I don't know who or what Mommy "C' is yet. Mommy "C" was determined to have both children go to school so she could get back to working on herself. So, I guess Mommy "C" is a bit selfish. But Mommy "C" just had breakfast, made a new blog entry and received a text from Daddy reporting that both children calmed down in the car and were dropped off at school with no tears. Mommy "C" feels OK right now.

Rock on Mommy "C."

Resurrection

It's time.

Time to get my shit together time. No more wallowing in self-pity and waiting for all-that-will-make-me-happy to come knocking at my door with a massively overemphasized body in check form affixed to little hands and feet that are dancing a "fuck yeah!" jig. A shout of "Congratulations Ms. K" possibly accompanied by the ever-anticipated, but rarely heard, "you've won!" or perhaps "we're pleased to announce!" is not likely to be proclaimed out on my doorstep like the far-fetched, but still oddly alluring, commercials of my youth alluded could happen if only you played the game. It's time to take action.

It's time to write.

Few people know that I used to enjoy writing; I enjoyed it quite a bit. And yes, I'll admit to finding great satisfaction and an unbelievable sense of accomplishment and tenacious spirit when my writing was cited. Better still, however, was the intense pride that could overcome any anxiety when I'd be asked to share with fellow classmates the thoughts that had once thrashed around my brain and managed to survive long enough in the bizarre-o-jungle that is my cognitive thought process to be transferred in some cogent form to paper. My college friends would tell you, if I actually had any, that more than 1 professor either read or asked me to read aloud one of my papers.

I had no college friends the 3rd *ahem* time around because I was older and, though not necessarily more confident, I really didn't care that I was the girl who people rolled their eyes at the mere mention of, or the one who was said to "ruin the curve" for others. It was the last time in life that I can remember being so unaffected by an aspect of my milieu so constant and interwoven into everyday life. I actually didn't give a shit what people thought of me because my determination was so great and so genuine that I could not have stayed sane lest I believed wholeheartedly in my goals. I imagine this is what athletes feel like. Or maybe really good parents.

I felt... self-worth.

A far cry from almost 22 years ago when I graduated high school in the bottom 5% of my class. Though I wrote back then as well. I wrote beautiful prose filled with flowing thoughts that were articulate and precise and germane to whatever was happening around me. The words just never made it from my head to paper, or out of my mouth, sadly. But the writings, and even the re-writes, were there. Trapped. Trapped like the tightly encased starter-bloom of a flower that you sometimes see in a mixed bunch of cut stems.

Do you know the ones I mean?

I thought of this analogy today: Often in a bunch of mixed or wild flowers, there are a few tall, strong stems with a flower and an off-shoot that grew strong enough to stand on its own, but either never had to or was never given a chance. The original stem was so long that the off-shoot grew with it and even produced a bud, but never made it to the full bloom stage. These are always the flowers I feel the most depressed about when I have to throw away an old, withered bouquet. The ones who never got their chance to bloom.

But, every so often you can preserve the off-shoot and she will open to become her own flower. While the support flower decays, its stem turning to a slippery mush as it begins the journey to compost, and its flower has long since bloomed and is now drooped over petal-less, the off-shoot is just beginning to open. Freed from the larger flowers and having its stem revived with a mere snip, the new bloom can finally open. But someone had to remember to help it along- someone had to see it stuck in the middle of the bright bouquet when it was still closed up tightly, still unable to open.

It wasn't the off-shoot's natural time to bloom, but it was picked anyway and placed in a group left to struggle for water, air and nutrients- its essentials for growth.

I wasn't ready to write when I was younger. I wasn't ready to share my thoughts and feelings, though I had many. I was too closed, too consumed and smothered by the presence of others. Too overshadowed. Picked too soon and forced into existence within a group before I had what I needed to grow and bloom my own identity. Who knows why? Maybe the off-shoot is really an early bloomer who had the potential to be massive and strong, but it's growth was interrupted or delayed and it had to fight harder or go slower or wait out the masses. Maybe it was a straggler who lie dormant within the bunch waiting to be given the little bit of space and extra attention it needed to immerse itself fully into flower life.

Maybe I am full of shit.

But there does seem to me to be some parallel between the two, and perhaps that's why I didn't write, or focus on the process and joy of learning, in my "formative" years. I had to find my freedom and my little bit of extra attention. I like to think that my husband is my inspiration- my growth factor- because it's always comforting to think that the one you love is your muse; one that both guides and protects. But honestly, it was me. When it was my time to shine, I shone; and that bright light filled me with confidence and a sense of purpose.

The very same people I sought out to educate me and whose experiences were intended to be the catalyst for inquiring minds to continue to inquire and gain knowledge, were interested in what I had to say; what I was thinking, my perceptions and how I was processing a wealth of information was valued and judged and deemed worthy. Every top grade was like finishing a 5K on my way to training for a marathon. The end of every semester was like watching a flower garden go from seedlings to vibrant, gorgeous blooms. Graduation was like rebuilding an original sports car from the engine on up- it took years, I had to change my approach a few times and it was arduous but when I was done I had achieved that which many people are only able to dream. Pride is not always a sin.

I was resurrected.

And so it is that I find myself writing again. Trying to form cogent thoughts that make their way to written form. Trying to find my inner sense of self-worth that I know I must be careful not to smoother or fail to feed and water. Though clearly the challenges I now face are far different. Who are the teachers, the judges? Who will evaluate my growth and rate my progress in a measurable way? A way in which I can enjoy that healthy sense of pride? Who is going to give me the stamp of approval I so desperately desire.

Well therein lies the problem. Aint life a bitch? Just when we get old enough to get past having to please others for our needs: Parents to love and care for us, friends to validate and define us, teachers to teach us and then bestow upon us a quantitative and often subjective mark that is meant solely to classify, religious and spiritual leaders to guide and validate our choices- just when it shouldn't matter what anyone else thinks anymore is when it seems to matter most. Our need for gratification doesn't end when we shift roles, but where it comes from must.

So, now what to do? I can't stay up endless hours while I attempt to document the thoughts that used to flow as easily as the smoke from the bong that was most likely a great inspiration, nor do I have hours to write and re-write and think about it and re-write some more.

Blog. That's what I'll do I'll blog. Because lately I seem to be hearing a lot of "if you love what you do, it won't be work" and while I think that's horse shit, there is truth to taking some time for oneself every day, and today I feel like writing. Tomorrow I may feel like reading and the next day I may feel like walking or embarking on a new endeavor- maybe I'll rebuild a car engine?

The only thing that's certain is that I have to self-grade, and that sucks. but I guess it also means that I don't ever have to fail.