drowning

Lately it seems I've been sinking gradually into darkness.  I can't shake the feeling of exhaustion, of giving up, of giving in, of not giving a damn. I have a headache every day by about 2:00, and never any money, and all I want is to curl up small and read books, or worse, watch TV.

I'm getting tired of bailing. I'm tempted to just let the boat fill up with water and go down. Down down down into the dark, lovely quiet deep.

Sigh.

But I can't, of course.  I won't.  I'll keep bailing and paddling and trying to believe there's the hope of land just beyond the horizon. But it's hard to live life fully in the moment when you're constantly struggling just to keep your snout above the waterline.

Saturday I told myself I was going to make a day of quiet and stillness:  no worrying forward or obsessing backward, no doubt or self-recrimination, no fear.  I just focused on being here now and letting everything else go. I had middling success, but I admit that the shadows crowded around just out of my peripheral vision.  I'm all too aware they are there. They're the old familiar demons:  Money is the ringleader, of course, accompanied by its neurotic sibling Worry.  Doubt stands with a long face and slowly shakes its head.  Despair buries her face in her hands. Frustration stands and grinds its teeth:  they're ground away incessantly, but never get any shorter.  Yeah, the whole gang was there.

I fear that I am failing, and I can't throw it off, I can't get my head up high enough to see the light or breathe. I don't know what else to do, frankly. And just staying the course seems to just keep me in the same place.

Tonight I will read books, sleep, remain still.  Tomorrow might be better.

Motivation Needed

School started again today.  Thank god. I enjoy the holidays, but I begin to spiral down into a glob of inert goo without enough structure in my life.  If left to my own devices, I'm sure I would just lie on the sofa and watch Dr. Who and never do anything at all.

No, actually, I'd alternate episodes of Dr. Who with chapters from the big ol' pile of books waiting to be read. No housekeeping or shopping would get done, that's for sure.  And my child-rearing would go all to hell.

Case in Point:

Last weekend G was with his dad, who got him a Ripstik for Christmas.  That's the skateboard-like thingy with two wheels that you mogate by moving your feet back and forth.  It looks like a lot of fun, but clearly takes some practice to get the hang of.  G had requested one for Christmas, and I can't really blame his dad for being skeptical.  My son's not a real go-getter physically.  He's bright, funny, charming, mature, articulate, creative, etc.  But he'll never be captain of any sports team. Anyway... his dad got it for him, which was nice, that he didn't pre-judge and just write it off as something the kid would never actually DO. He gave him the benefit of the doubt. And, like me, he was thinking maybe it would be something that would encourage him to get outside, unplug, and do something physical.

After Christmas, G and I went out one afternoon for him to try it out, and he met with some modicum of success:  enough to make me believe he could eventually learn to ride the thing.  But that was just one day, and after that one attempt, he didn't go out with it again.  The call of the computer, new games, and long lazy afternoons of watching Youtube videos was just too great.  And frankly, I was ill inclined to make him go.  Screw it.

But his dad asked that G bring the ripstik to his place for the weekend, and he actually made the kid go outside and practice.  I don't know how long they spent at it, but he sent me some video of G on the stik, having success, wiggling his way into view from down the street.

I was proud of my boy, and glad his dad had taken the initiative and gotten him out there.  But I still felt like a crappy mom.

I have to admit that I'm a type B Minus personality.  I let things slide. I procrastinate. I make do.

When my parents came to visit over Christmas, my poor dad, who's a type A Plus, bustled around DOING things for a week.  Buying lightbulbs, fixing doors, tinkering with things. I appreciate his kindness and his effort, and his desire to help me, to make things better for me. But it wears me out.

I get my motivation is brief bursts, I can't maintain it. I might suddenly get a spark of inspiration and bathe all the dogs, or clean out a closet, or wash and wax the car.  But I don't keep that part of my brain juiced up to operate all the time.  I don't go "Hey, this lock is sticky, I'll go get some WD 40 and fix it."  I go: "Damned lock sticks."  and that's it. It's not really bothering me.

Then one day I look up and I realize that ALL my locks are sticky, all my lightbulbs are out, there are no clean socks or jeans, the trash and recycling haven't been taken out in three weeks and I just threw this year's discarded Christmas tree onto the brown, brittle corpse of last year's tree. In the front yard no less.

Then I feel bad about it.

This is how I roll. I'd like to be the kind of woman who keeps her house clean, maintains a strict television and computer-time schedule for her kid, has a designated time and place for homework, maintains up to date veterinary and pediatric records on everyone, and always knows where her keys are.  But I'm the sort of woman who can't find last year's tax return, starts each Monday morning by being out of bread, milk, and eggs, has a bag of clothes that have needed to be taken to the dry-cleaners for two years, and can't remember what I had for dinner last night, much less which immunizations my kid has had. In fact, right now, I can't remember the name of my kid's pediatrician, which is why I haven't scheduled his annual check-up yet.

(Though to be fair to myself, when we moved to Arkansas, I was obliged to find a new pediatrician for G, a new primary care physician for me, an optometrist for both of us, a dentist, an allergist, an ear-nose-and-throat specialist and an OB-GYN in one year.  I think I can be forgiven for forgetting the name of at least ONE of those.)

All this talk of motivation makes me want to put my head down and have a nap.

Maybe it's seasonal. Everything seems easier to put off in the winter because it's cold.  However, in the spring I put things off because I'd rather be outside planting my garden, or potting flowers, or puttering about. In the summer, it's too hot, and I'd rather be at the river. I don't know what my excuse is for the fall.

Here's a story to illustrate my problem.
A year ago, I found out that my car title was still in my ex husband's name.  So about six months ago, when he was unable (or unwilling) to find the original title, I filed for a replacement title in Oklahoma and got all the paperwork ready. It took me weeks, but I finally got it all signed and notarized and sent it off to the Oklahoma DMV.  They sent it back saying I needed to register the title in Arkansas.

In the meantime, my drivers license and car tags have expired.  Well, to get the license, I will have to take the written and eye exams again. I will also have to supply my birth certificate and all the documentation to prove that I am who I say I am, which in my case will include my marriage license which changed my name from Linda Carole DeBerry to Linda DeBerry Coldwell...my divorce decree, and the court order changing my name from Linda deberry Coldwell to Linda McConnell DeBerry, to explain why my social security card doesn't jibe with my birth certificate.

To get the tag, I have to first get the car appraised for property taxes. Oh, and I have to have a title.  I don't know yet what I have to do to get the title.  I got confused.  And all of it is way past the 30-days deadline that I just this week found out was in place.  So I'm a year and a half into my life in Arkansas, driving without a license, tag, or title.  And I'm confused about what I have to do first.  I think I'll just gather up every piece of documentation I can find and go set up a tent at the DMV.  I know it will likely take one full day, at least, to get everything done.

It wears me out.

Of Changes and the Lack Thereof

New Year.
I always fall victim to the resolution thing.  I know I won't keep them.  I know I never have.  I can look back through 43 volumes of journals and find the very same damned resolutions year after year after year.

Therefore, I hearby resolve NOT to resolve.  I'll make no promises of betterment, of changes in my behavior, of lofty goals to attain.

Okay, just one:  I'll finish my book this year.  As god is my witness.  I'll finish that book.


Resolutions aside, the year ahead looks promising, with no major obstacles to overcome, no great impending changes ahead, and no problems or situations I wish desperately to change.  I need to just take a deep breath, relax, and resist the urge to muck about with things.

Despite my terrible housekeeping skills, my propensity for procrastination, and my general ability to ignore a state of chaos, I am something of a woman of action.  No really.  I like to be able to be DOING something:  moving forward, as it were.  I'm not good at standing still.  I'm not, as my ex-husband was, chronically disappointed, but I am always willing to believe that there's something better, and perhaps some way to attain it.

Restless, that's what I am.  And impatient.  I want things, and I want them now.  If my situation is not to my liking, I want it to be changed right away.  I want to be able to go DO something that will change it, and I get very frustrated when I can't.  As Inigo Montoya said:  "I hate waiting."

So I rush things.  I push.  I try to make things happen before they logically can or should, or I get the steps out of order, because I just want to be making progress.  Doing something.

So now I am trying to chill out, and let things unfold.  I want to take advantage of this calm, quiet place I've entered and surround myself with peace for awhile: Don't rush to do better, don't ask a lot of questions about what comes next.  Just enjoy where I am.

It's harder than it sounds.  Just sitting still and enjoying life should be so easy, shouldn't it?  But there are all these little things that clutter it up.  Sometimes it's worry, which I excel at.  I worry about all kinds of unnecessary things, and project those worries into future realities.  I then compound the interest on those (un)realities and worry about what will happen next.  Worst-case scenario onto worst-case scenario, or fear of the unknowable unknown.  It's exhausting just to watch the squirrel in my brain run, sometimes.

Lately I worry over balancing my wants and needs with my son's wants and needs. Since he appeared in the world, twelve years ago, G has been the center of my universe.  I swear that my heart left my body and took up residence in his on the day he was born, and my heart has never been wholly my own since that moment.

We've been through a lot together, and often he has had the grace, maturity, and hopefulness, to say nothing of the patience, to help me through things I didn't know how to get through. I wish I had a dollar for every time my young son took my hand and told me "It's going to be okay, Mom."  I wish I had that kind of faith.

Of course, it always was okay, eventually, and he gracefully handled whatever came his way, without complaint, without sulking, without making it too hard on me to make the decisions I had to make.  He adapted, as needed, and I tried to make it as easy on him as possible.

Out of love and gratitude to him, I have vowed not to impose more changes on him without his being wholly on board with them. There is no further need for survival mode or escape. I don't need to make changes in my life right now.  And he is now entering a period of great personal change himself, for which I need to be here and focused and stable.  I'm glad that I'm entering a place of peace just in time for him to really need me to be there.

But I want things for myself, too. Lately G has been putting up some barriers to the time we spend with John.  I don't know why, because I know he likes John and wants me to stay with John.  He seems genuinely happy for me.  But he's been standing firm on his need for more time for just the two of us.  I have to acquiesce, on policy.   I don't ever, ever, ever want to force John's presence on my boy, and I will never choose John over my son on any level. But there is a line there, somewhere, between what's good for me and what's preferable to my son. I will never choose my wants over his needs. I want to spend time with John.  But G needs me to continue to demonstrate to him that he's my main man, the one I love best.

I'm treading very lightly here, because G is changing. He's entering adolescence, and his moods are becoming more changeable than ever before.  He never loses his temper, but he does get sad, and he does get needy.  One minute he's all plugged into his computer, checked out; the next, he's in my lap, touching my face and snuggling me, telling me he feels sad, but doesn't know why.

I fear, of course. I fear the legacy of my depression. How horrible it would be to see my bright, beautiful boy descend into those depths, with me helpless to make any change.  I pray, if praying is the right word, that he has not gotten that from me. But I also know that adolescence brings its own periods of unexplainable melancholy.  At least my own experience with the blues have made it possible for me to help him deal with that when it happens.

Recently he was upset and came to me crying, but couldn't tell me why. He just said "things are changing so fast for me right now I don't think I can take it."

In some ways, I understand that:  he has a new step-mother (sort of) on his dad's side, and a new baby brother who's doubtless getting the lion's share of his dad's attention right now. And here at home, there's John showing up a couple of times a week, hanging around the house like family, and stepping in to do some of the things I used to do, like taking him for his shots every week.  But on the other hand, these are nowhere near the changes he went through in the four years prior.  So I think it has more to do with new, more grown-up and worrisome ways of understanding these things than the things themselves.

I told him recently that some of what he is beginning to feel now is purely chemical, and not necessarily caused by or attached to any outside thing at all.  I told him, too, that sometimes he's just going to feel weird.  He's going to feel all grown up one day and feel like playing with toys and snuggling his mom the next.

"That explains a lot," he told me.  And the incident was over.  For now.

I have so much to learn.  So much to help him through in the next few years.  And for once, I don't want to take action.  I want to just sit on my hands, heart in my throat,  and pray for the best.