I have 1.5 hours to get my thoughts out, give or take, while the kids nap. This is what my life has become, just a series of predictable events. Uneventful, uninspired.
I stopped writing completely after I had Evelyn and got married, open diary was gone and I felt like I’d outgrown the need to journal I guess, so aside from attempting a blog, I just, didn’t write. And now I’m finding, it’s hard to find my voice again. I never had much of one to begin with, not out loud at least. But written words used to come a lot easier, a lot more poetic, a lot deeper. But right now it just feels awkward.
I’ve shut out so many of my feelings, never expressing them, never talking about them, it’s hard to know where to even begin to unravel, to get real. Fake it til you make it, right?
I’m sitting on our bed, typing on my laptap – there’s just something about journaling that can’t be done on a tablet. I need the rhythmic tapping of keys to keep me going.
We have what I assume is an average American life; a home with a fenced back yard – family portraits line the walls, books & toys litter the floors, 2 SUVs, 2 kids, a single income and a stay at home mom. My kids are smart, they’re sweet, and they’re cute – they have their moments but overall they are well behaved and adored by pretty much everyone. My husband has a great job, he’s intelligent, works hard, takes care of us. He’s handsome in a rugged, mature way. He cooks us dinner when I don’t have my shit together enough to have it on the table when he gets home. He occasionally uses his lunch break to walk across the street to buy me chocolate. Texts me that he loves me every morning at a decent enough hour that he knows it won’t wake me. He’s a great dad, I mean, he’s the fun dad – he sucks at disciplining them but he loves them and does an okay job taking care of them if I leave them all home alone. I run a local moms group on facebook, it started with just the tribe I was trying to create for myself but has grown to over 500 members; I successfully keep it drama free and I’ve seen it help countless other moms find their tribe, and seen so much support and so many acts of kindness between complete strangers…I don’t get paid but it makes me feel like I’m doing something worthwhile (besides raising good kids obviously). And I do have a close-knit tribe of my own, I have several friends that I’ve made since Evelyn was born that I not only like, but their kids are great too. And similar in ages to my kids. And we all get along, and all our kids get along. And that, is an incredible feat. We occasionally even go out sans kids to see a movie together or get our nails done. We see eachother weekly, we are at all our kids birthdays, we have get togethers on holidays. A couple of us even went on a family vacation together last year.
On paper, it sounds like I have it all. And I do! I have everything I could want. But it all lacks depth, like I’m just going through the motions.
And sometimes I think I miss the life I had before. Where I could say what I wanted, feel what I wanted, do what I wanted. Not that I could have that life anymore – it’s unrealistic, it’s selfish. And I have kids. So. The most selfish thing I do is eat my chocolate after they’ve gone to bed so I don’t have to share. I say I hate drama, and I do, but sometimes I wonder, if maybe dramatic people are doing something right…they’re being real? My friends don’t know that I struggle with fits of rage that are reminiscent of scenes out of a Lifetime original, or how much I struggle with body image, or how depressed I get in the winter, they don’t know that my husband and I rarely have sex and that we fight constantly, that I can’t remember the last time I told him I loved him or felt any sort of passion with him. (even though I DO love him and can’t imagine my life with anyone else). They only know me as the mom that I am… not as the complete person I am. And I can’t tell my husband how I feel, it would break his heart and ruin our relationship. If I said – yeah, some days all I want is to just get dressed up and go find someone else to fuck me. To feel someone else want me, lust for me, for all the wrong reasons.
The clock is ticking. It’s taken me an hour just to get this far.
It’s Valentine’s Day, I hate cliche shit. I hate birthdays, I hate anniversaries, I even hate most things about Christmas, honestly, I hate any sort of holiday/tradition where people do/say things just because that’s what you’re supposed to do. My husband is aware of my disdain for meaningless drivel, so, predictably, we won’t be celebrating. He will however probably beg me to have sex with him, which I hate, and he knows I hate, yet he continues to do it. I’d say I can’t blame him though, except, well, I can. Because the reason we don’t have sex more often is because half the time when I initiate it, he can’t get it up and says he just needs more time to get in the mood (insert eye roll), except when I do go the extra mile to get him in the mood, it still never works. So I don’t bother anymore. And then he blames me for not doing it. And I blame him for not just getting it up in the first place. And then I just stop trying. And then he begs me. And we’re back where we started. I get it, it’s just not as exciting after awhile, because how can you lust after something you’ve had hundreds of times? I mean I don’t get it, in that a dick is a dick to me, but I do get that it’s hard to be that into me when we’ve been at this for years. We’ve done it all. And I’m too exhausted to be extra.
Maybe it’s my fault. I hate my post-baby body even more than I ever hated my pre-baby body. I’m just skinny enough that my lack of tits and impossible to get rid of mom gut just make me look like I’ve stopped caring. And then, when I try to workout and lose the mom gut, all that goes is even more of my barely existent tits?! I’ve got nothing left. My stomach protrudes more than my tits. So there’s that. I don’t feel sexy like I did when we first started dating. Back then my lack of tits was cute, and guys didn’t care. And I was completely uninhibited.
Time’s up. exactly 1 hour, 29 minutes.