I'm sitting here with cold coffee and bad local news on. Hollis is trailing off to sleep in his crib, Anthony's been sawing logs for an hour. I've paid bills, organized finances and pulled up all my favorite blogs to catch up on and comment. I've checked into Facebook, thought about checking into Twitter, but then didn't, and that cold cup of black coffee continues to whisper to me to heat it up and give it another go.
I want to write about 2009, but I don't know that I could make it interesting. It was a shitty, brilliant, wonderful, sad, intense, incredible year.
I've been trying to imagine what 2009 will look like to me in 5, 10, or 15 years. When my kid is nearly grown and I have gray hair and wrinkles. A year is such a short amount of time, yet when we're living it we're no better at seeing the larger picture than our toddler who's screaming for more Little Mermaid at bedtime.
The idea that I can't see outside of myself during this time reinforces my belief that age most simply separates at a glance, but internally, we change little from children. We're still bundles of passionate feelings. Obviously, age tempers those things and we learn how to better manage outbursts, but I've been feeling pretty ill-equipped to deal lately.
Funniest part of all this is that I would be willing to bet that no one who knows me in real life would ever suspect the internal warring I have going on. It's not only about mothering, like the duck metaphor Cave Mother wrote about, but just in general. As a woman. I struggle to do the right thing every day. At least it feels like a struggle sometimes.
I want to run away for a month, a year, five years. I want to do whatever my heart desires whenever I want. I want to love more, do more, be more. I want to also have my current life.
Yep. I want a different life AND I want my same life. You think that's confusing to read? Try living it.
I want my cake and to eat it, too. I want everything I have right now and everything I gave up to get it.
This tells me one really, really important thing: I'm doing something wrong.
I am missing something integral to my happiness. I think I've identified it, but I'm not entirely sure. Only the next year will tell. I'm taking steps to make it happen as I type. I've decided to break my life into bits and focus on those bits, not the giant overwhelming Future. You know, one step at a time, baby steps, etc., etc.
So, what's the point in making resolutions or reviewing the past year? Mostly, it feels good, as self-centered exercises often do. I can think about my year and see all its highs and lows and maybe I'll be better armed for the coming year. And I love organizing events, thoughts, feelings, and goals into bite-sized pieces.
I can head things off at the pass in terms of emotional upheavals. I have some great resolutions, for example, and because I'm a list-loving fool writing them down and sharing them helps anchor me in my chaotic head space. I'll be posting some resolutions next week, as a matter of fact, as a part of a new blogging carnival.
This is just still a whole lot of bullshit.
A good friend of mine recently asked why I expose my thoughts and feelings on my own shortcomings. Why would I air my dirty laundry like that?? It's a good question. My response was, "So that I don't feel so alone because I get a lot of positive feedback that others are also feeling the way I do," but... I don't know. I think the real reason is because I'm waiting for someone else to tell me what a piece of shit I really am. Just one person to tell me the truth.
I'm constantly surprised that anyone chooses to love me. And I am the first to admit that I have some really incredibly people in my life who truly love me, warts and all. It still stupefies me.
And now, despite it being 1:30 in the afternoon, I am going to reheat the two sips of coffee I have left and relax a little.
Also, thanks for loving me.