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The studio formerly known as “my yoga studio” which is certainly now someone else’s yoga studio has a cute little framed picture of a dancing bear above the toilet.  I don’t usually go for the dancing-bear-in-frame motif, but above this this particular teddy (one might have once referred to it as “my teddy”) are the words: Remember to use positive affirmations.  I am not a dork is not one of them. 

I always chuckled at this little ha-ha because “I am not a dork” is my kind of affirmation. Along with:  I am not a loser.  I am not a cow.  And, I am not destined to be another slug popped and gutted under the iron heel of mediocrity.

When I try on phrases such as: I am hip.  I am sexy.  I am both intelligent and talented and am a virtual giant of creativity.  I just sound like a fraud.

(Yeah, I should also try on the phrase “Even though I’m a language arts teacher, I don’t know a good goddamn about grammar.”  Yes, that explains the odd jumble of colons and periods and the lack of quotation marks or whatever.)

But, you say, you are hip and you are sexy and you are both intelligent, talented, and supremely creative.

Well,  I thank you.  But still…

As of late, trying on new affirmations hasn’t been high on the priority list.

Instead I’ve been toying with a new strain of depression.  I’m not sure what to call it yet, except for “it fucking sucks”.  I cannot possibly imagine how people go through their lives living in this state of pathetic, miserable, zombie-hood.  When I’m not trying to keep a chin up for Silas, I’m sleeping or staring or sleeping and staring if that’s at all possible.

I really should take up TV.
Oh, but I can’t.  Instead I lie on the bed debating whether or not I should watch TV and trying to convince myself that I am not a loser… or a cow… or you get it.  (Even the 4th and final book in the Twilight saga isn’t doing it for me.)

Anyhow, we’re back home.  Silas and I.  I am feeling well enough to be typing this and I’m damn proud of it.  A few weeks ago, I thought I could bite the bullet and use this blog as a journal.  But, I don’t journal.  So, you’ll have to take me when you get me.  So much for fame and glory.

The kitchen isn’t finished but the debris has been removed and now Silas can run through it without any real risk of death and, hoo-rah, we have running water.

We’re desperately broke.

So broke it’s embarrassing.

But, somehow we’re forging on.  And, my parents offered to buy me a new set of tires.  (Thanks Pops.)

What else?  Hmmm…

What’s that?  I am journaling, you say.
Yes, I suppose I am.  Isn’t it dreadfully boring?

Oh yes, it is, you say.  Do you have anything more interesting to spout about?

Well, sure.

Recently, I was talking with a friend who described being the working parent of an 18-35 month old as having a heavy weight constantly pressing on your chest.  I can’t do her description justice because the essence of it was mostly in her physical expression– the strain and weariness of her face, the hopelessness of her hands.  And, while I know that not all parents struggle with this age, I knew exactly what she meant.  There is so little personal time– especially with no family nearby and with no kitchen and between marriage counseling sessions ya-ha-ha.

Still, her frankness really helped.  It made me realize that it’s not just my situation or my mental state or my inferiority that is the catalyst for this depression, this exhaustion, this weight.  On top of it all, parenting is really tough.  Beautiful, very beautiful, but very, very tough.

So, maybe I’m not a worthless parent, a selfish whiner, or a bitch.  Maybe I’m just tired and normal and not a dork.

To close, let me post a dear friend’s poem:  (as you can see smooth transitions are not my thing tonight, but I’m here, yeah, I’m here…)

Anyhow, my friend’s untitled masterpiece:
Each night

I haven’t got

rhythm

or good ideas

but I’ve got

the rockin’ down,

rockin’ down,

rockin’ down.

I haven’t got

clean floors

dinner made

a bank account

that shows

I’ve got it made

but I’ve got

the rockin’ down

the rockin’ down

the rockin’ down

I haven’t got

cold cuts,

lean meat,

tomato feet

cold cuts,

pickled beets,

tomato feet.

cold cuts,

wheat bread,

tomato red

but I’ve got

the rockin’ down

rockin’ down

rockin’ down.

I haven’t got

a favorite spot

friends to call

books to write

on bedroom walls

long late nights

but I’ve got

the rockin’ down

rockin’ down

rockin’ down

– Melisa Ian Toothman (aka Slymillion)

This entry was posted on Tuesday, April 7th, 2009 at 9:53 pm and is filed under Poetry, Pure Raw Motherhood, That Beautiful Bipolarity!. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.