I wrote last month about the Inner Critic, whom I called I.C. Karla commented on the post and stopped me in my tracks. "The Mean Girl" she called I.C. And I knew from the chills that ran up my arm she had absolutely named exactly who that critic was.
Me. I'm the Mean Girl.
I'm tired. We're just coming off a long weekend and a busy start to this week. Today was our first 'down' day. And so of course, I've spent the entirety of the day trying to catch up on household things, and do a bit of writing, and make sure I get supper well started because I have kids to keep this afternoon and I've fretted over a half dozen jobs that need to be seen to seemingly right away but I'm not getting to at all.
I've been rushing myself all afternoon long, and I'd been sitting here writing and I thought, "Oh golly, this is too much.... Oh gosh, this doesn't sound good at all...Oh goodness why can't I make sense of anything?" And when I paused for a moment, I realized, I am tired. I could happily close my eyes and take a nap sort of weary. I've done too many 'should' tasks today, this week thus far and I'd not considered that I was too weary when the day started. I'd fallen into bed last night and gone right to sleep and had to push myself to get out of bed at all this morning.
This afternoon we were coming home from errands and passed a familiar landmark. John commented that something there had changed. We discussed that change briefly. As we spoke, I recalled how often we formerly drove out that way. I asked why it had been that we used to drive by there so frequently and John told me.
It was a different season of life for us. It had been part of an evening routine to take an evening drive, turn around and come home. Just a small thing but deeply important to a very anxious little boy who needed routines to ground him. That late afternoon/early evening drive was part of his evening routine, part of getting him ready to settle down each night.
I looked out across a field, one that was as familiar to me as my own landscape here on this property because I'd viewed it so often. I said softly, "Oh yes...that season felt like it would last forever, but it didn't, did it?"
Mirror, mirror on the wall...
Last night I dreamed of something hard. I woke tense with a heavy cloud hanging over me that had nothing at all to do with the rainy wintry day outside. I carried the heaviness with me into the kitchen to get coffee. I sat with it as I sipped from my cup and made our breakfast. I walked with it as I did the few chores I needed to do.
In life we are tagged with various labels. And many of them are untrue, falsely applied.
As a child I heard frequently that I was 'selfish', 'lazy', 'irresponsible', 'stupid', 'dramatic', 'hateful', 'a liar'. If I worked physically hard, I was called, 'Smart.'
When I married and left home, I was told I was lazy and slovenly. Told that I formed acquaintances to earn favors, was a 'user' in the sense that it was supposed I used people to get what I wanted. I was called 'careless' with money, even though I always managed very well on the limited amount of money I had. I was told I was a bad mother. Not a 'real' woman.
This morning, I waited in the car at the Dermatologist's office where John had an appointment. It was a lovely and revelatory hour spent writing.
At first, I was thinking about my 'retirement' which honestly wasn't much of a retirement. It hardly felt like retirement. I rather resented anyone saying I was 'retired' since I was, at that time, working harder than I'd worked in years and years. But in September of this past year, I came to the conclusion that indeed it was time to retire.
I was standing before the mirror the other morning, washing my face and brushing my hair. I was thinking of the past and I found myself saying to the mirror, "I wish I'd learned that earlier." I'd have saved myself a lot of tears and heartache had I realized they were lessons I needed to learn and not tests to fail repeatedly as I did.
1. Being alone and being lonely are two very different things. I learned to be alone in my childhood for many reasons, which had to do with the era and place in which I lived, and some to do with family dynamics. I got on for the most part. Though I had brothers, we didn't often play together. I was blessed in that I could always find something to do to pass away the hours.
When I was growing up, I'd often ask for things, as children are wont to do. Mama didn't always say 'No' but occasionally she would say, "I'll try." If I asked for a promise, she'd always tell me the same thing. "I can't make a promise, Terri. Things come up sometimes that won't allow me to keep my word. But I will try." Often enough, Mama provided what I'd asked for, but there were times when it simply didn't work out and I was never as disappointed as I might have been had she told she absolutely promised and then failed me.
I had such a lovely walk on January 1st. It was cold and frosty and quiet. As I walked on the upper part of the back yard path towards the old field road, I heard a branch or leaf in the woods next to me. Two does emerged and ran across Sam's field across the fence.
I walked down the field road towards my brother's drive, then turned into the wide-open field that is Sam's. I heard something north/huff behind me. I turned and looked and saw nothing. Started back uphill and again heard the north/huff sound. Again, I turned and saw nothing. Then it happened a third time. I realized it was a buck trying to scare me off. "Oh, go away! You've got hundreds of acres you can roam; you don't need this little space!" The buck took off through the woods.
I am sitting in the midst of a mess. Open bottle of glue, scissors, paper scraps, pen, water, an open rolling cart of art supplies, printer pulled near so that I might print off pages, a ruler, a pile of trash (paper), open journals, open notebooks, my Bible...I've completely claimed one half of the dining table.
I am irritable as can be. John is in the music room calling out to talk to me about sundry thing. My computer is slower than molasses. And the printer is temperamental at best. I would like to cry, yell, fuss.
I've been seriously lacking in the ability to take any inspired thought and write it out but I do have quite a lot of thoughts shoved in my head at the moment and so I thought I'd do what I occasionally have done over at BHJ and write a post with those random thoughts. Perhaps once I unpack what is cluttering up my brain, I can get back to the business of actually writing cohesive posts.
In the meantime, here we go:
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I wrote last month about the Inner Critic, whom I called I.C. Karla commented on the post and stopped me in my tracks. "The Mean Gi...
