I miss blogging.
And yet, each time I think of doing it, I am struck with the intense awareness of not knowing how to write. I know how I don't want to, but I've no idea how to create something new, and appropriate.
And so, I never do.
I'd like to take the 'I' out of it, but I haven't a clue how, really. I don't even know what I want to read, other than silly romances, a guilty pleasure which delights and annoys me in equal... measure.
I have zero confidence that any opinion I might have that's longer than a sentence could have any worth, anymore. And in the absence of a blogging community, my posts will just sit here, I know, so they need to be more complete than they used to, when the intention was to create a conversation.
And so... back to a weblog, of sorts, perhaps, with recording and observing, and a view to just ... writing?
Roundup:
Work is stable, though I don't feel any interest in committing to it in a way that would make me feel I was excelling, or competent, and this doesn't feel good. Hovering question: what could I retrain at, at 42/3, that would translate into a profitable, satisfying job, given that I have a very dependent teenager and an 11 year old, no spare money, and a deeply questionable work ethic/energy level?
Hmm. That's an open question.
On the home life front, my mind is more peaceful, as I have released the feeling of how things should be, of what life I should live, and get, and give, as evidenced in the early, frustrated, lonely, anguished years of this blog, to a very great degree. I am much more accepting of a life without an intimate relationship, with few friends, and much of my own company. New Year's Eve doesn't matter any more, and the craving for arms around me lessens all the time. I feel this is a good development, even if the pressure to be optimistic and have expectations still lurks. Those things did not serve me well. This is definitely less painful.
My daughter has retreated ever further, now staying in her room (or talking to her dad and brother on the landing (and more recently, *in* her room! Big development!) because I sneaked in to try and kill the moths (haha, I just wrote 'mothers') it was infested with last summer, and she busted me and was utterly betrayed. It was the final straw, and she refuses to come downstairs anymore, except in the dead of night. I haven't seen her in nearly 6 months. She is happy, in her limited, safe little space, she has cleaned her room very nicely, which is amazing, but it's not really good. We go on, we wait and wonder. I have no answers, and am pretty much constantly tormented with guilt at my mental health induced parenting mistakes, the ghosts of my father's PTSD rage that haunt us all, the massive, massive regrets. I still don't know what to do with this, but I feel it more acutely than I did when I was in the middle of making all the mistakes. Then it felt like it could still get better, now it just feels like irreparable damage, and time slipped by too soon.
My son is doing great, despite anxiety, he's growing up a lot. He's wonderful but needs more friends. I hope secondary school will provide them for him. We need more space. We're spending all our money mentioned in the last post on building an extra outside room for his dad to sleep in and put his stuff in, so Bodhi can have his own room. He's very excited. He might even be able to have a sleepover, now Olivia stays away from all human contact by day.
That's the big update.
Christmas was fine. Nice. Despite two whole weeks off before it, I still didn't manage to transform the house into a minimalist Christmas paradise. Again. But that was to be expected. I bought nice second hand kitchen chairs, after 16 years of embarrassing folding furniture. They're pretty. My kitchen is Blue now, but it's the Wrong Blue and I don't know what to do about that, exactly. Paint it again in another 5 years, probably.
My room has suddenly started smelling of something like mouldering feet, and I have no idea what is making that happen. It's a distracting, disturbing smell. My sense of smell tortures me. I would be tempted to sacrifice the smell of flowers and sunshine and the sea and baking to free myself from the olfactory torment of solvents and 'parfum' and smoke and body odour and mould and all the other bad things, so painful are they, and such a hassle my problems with them are to other people.
Ok, enough of this. The question for now, as suggested last night by a dear old friend is, how to make myself magnetized for the good things I want and need, rather than the opposite?
Does fear of those bad things draw them in and feed them? It is my experience that optimism and hope have been destructive in the past - but I also believe strongly in allowing one's brain to direct one towards good things. I will make the vision board I've been planning for years. But this idea of magnetism is important. How to change our... frequency? Is that the right term? I have no interest in being hit in the face by any more frying pans, 2019. None at all.
And yet, each time I think of doing it, I am struck with the intense awareness of not knowing how to write. I know how I don't want to, but I've no idea how to create something new, and appropriate.
And so, I never do.
I'd like to take the 'I' out of it, but I haven't a clue how, really. I don't even know what I want to read, other than silly romances, a guilty pleasure which delights and annoys me in equal... measure.
I have zero confidence that any opinion I might have that's longer than a sentence could have any worth, anymore. And in the absence of a blogging community, my posts will just sit here, I know, so they need to be more complete than they used to, when the intention was to create a conversation.
And so... back to a weblog, of sorts, perhaps, with recording and observing, and a view to just ... writing?
Roundup:
Work is stable, though I don't feel any interest in committing to it in a way that would make me feel I was excelling, or competent, and this doesn't feel good. Hovering question: what could I retrain at, at 42/3, that would translate into a profitable, satisfying job, given that I have a very dependent teenager and an 11 year old, no spare money, and a deeply questionable work ethic/energy level?
Hmm. That's an open question.
On the home life front, my mind is more peaceful, as I have released the feeling of how things should be, of what life I should live, and get, and give, as evidenced in the early, frustrated, lonely, anguished years of this blog, to a very great degree. I am much more accepting of a life without an intimate relationship, with few friends, and much of my own company. New Year's Eve doesn't matter any more, and the craving for arms around me lessens all the time. I feel this is a good development, even if the pressure to be optimistic and have expectations still lurks. Those things did not serve me well. This is definitely less painful.
My daughter has retreated ever further, now staying in her room (or talking to her dad and brother on the landing (and more recently, *in* her room! Big development!) because I sneaked in to try and kill the moths (haha, I just wrote 'mothers') it was infested with last summer, and she busted me and was utterly betrayed. It was the final straw, and she refuses to come downstairs anymore, except in the dead of night. I haven't seen her in nearly 6 months. She is happy, in her limited, safe little space, she has cleaned her room very nicely, which is amazing, but it's not really good. We go on, we wait and wonder. I have no answers, and am pretty much constantly tormented with guilt at my mental health induced parenting mistakes, the ghosts of my father's PTSD rage that haunt us all, the massive, massive regrets. I still don't know what to do with this, but I feel it more acutely than I did when I was in the middle of making all the mistakes. Then it felt like it could still get better, now it just feels like irreparable damage, and time slipped by too soon.
My son is doing great, despite anxiety, he's growing up a lot. He's wonderful but needs more friends. I hope secondary school will provide them for him. We need more space. We're spending all our money mentioned in the last post on building an extra outside room for his dad to sleep in and put his stuff in, so Bodhi can have his own room. He's very excited. He might even be able to have a sleepover, now Olivia stays away from all human contact by day.
That's the big update.
Christmas was fine. Nice. Despite two whole weeks off before it, I still didn't manage to transform the house into a minimalist Christmas paradise. Again. But that was to be expected. I bought nice second hand kitchen chairs, after 16 years of embarrassing folding furniture. They're pretty. My kitchen is Blue now, but it's the Wrong Blue and I don't know what to do about that, exactly. Paint it again in another 5 years, probably.
My room has suddenly started smelling of something like mouldering feet, and I have no idea what is making that happen. It's a distracting, disturbing smell. My sense of smell tortures me. I would be tempted to sacrifice the smell of flowers and sunshine and the sea and baking to free myself from the olfactory torment of solvents and 'parfum' and smoke and body odour and mould and all the other bad things, so painful are they, and such a hassle my problems with them are to other people.
Ok, enough of this. The question for now, as suggested last night by a dear old friend is, how to make myself magnetized for the good things I want and need, rather than the opposite?
Does fear of those bad things draw them in and feed them? It is my experience that optimism and hope have been destructive in the past - but I also believe strongly in allowing one's brain to direct one towards good things. I will make the vision board I've been planning for years. But this idea of magnetism is important. How to change our... frequency? Is that the right term? I have no interest in being hit in the face by any more frying pans, 2019. None at all.
No comments:
Post a Comment