Sometimes it does get better… sometimes it doesn’t

Wow… I haven’t posted in over a half a year…

How have you been? Easter came and went here in the Great Northwest, and we had a four day weekend, which was nice. Glad that Canadians haven’t gone so secular that we don’t get a day off on either end of an Easter weekend. It was even sunny for a chunk of it. I made roast lamb for Easter dinner and it was good.

I decided to take a couple of extra days off to rest up. I’ve been feeling run down and just down in general. Maybe I should go to the head shrinker and take some happy pills.

I spent yesterday watching Torchwood on Netflix and working in an art journal. It’s been so long since I’ve felt moved to work in it that I’m just glad I can still do it. Things are hurting inside… my creative process feels splintered and broken… so odd, really. Like I’m walking on glass in there, barefoot, as I root around inspecting my inner landscape for inspiration.

Someone recently told me (in a fit of spite) that he didn’t like my art work and that it was nightmarish. He had mostly only looked at my art journals, I think, and made his assessment based on that. Truth be told I have never made art for others’ consumption… it has always been an outlet for letting out what creeps in my inner corridors… and if I let you all see what truly creeps in there, “nightmarish” wouldn’t even scratch the surface I reckon. I always look on with envy when I see people make pretty things… pretty paintings using pretty colours, purely focused on aesthetic and looking happy, or being informative and helpful and useful–someone whose blog folks would want to visit weekly just to glean some inspiration from. I was never that person, but I really did try to be.

Our landlord has advised that they may be selling the place, so I guess I will need to start putting out feelers for a new place, still in the vicinity. Close by, so that Gabriel doesn’t have to change schools.

I hate moving. I’ve moved so much over the last two decades that I’m kind of burnt out on moving, but it appears I may not have a choice… and I get to go it alone. Gabriel is parroting his dad’s words about my needing to “get rid of some more of [my] stuff”.  I don’t have that much stuff… I’ve gotten rid of so much already and I’m just not prepared to get rid of more at the moment. Maybe I will once I start packing again and get discouraged by the volume of stuff that needs to get sorted and stored, which in turn will need to be found room for on the other end.

I got news that the ex is coming up in a couple of weekends to pick Gabriel up to head to Seattle for the weekend. He’s coming with divorce papers, something that we’ve been procrastinating on but clearly need to file eventually.

It’s weird… I’ve been a wife and mother for so long I’m not sure how to be anything else, and for the last several years it has been as though I’ve been working on partial programming… like there’s a role that I’m still enacting but without the other player in place… so only part of who I’ve become gets voiced and the other part feels lost.

And even that part is shifting slowly. Eventually Gabriel will move back to California and I will find myself having to start my “life” over from scratch, at 50, because somewhere along the way I’ve lost my way and forgotten my purpose.  I feel like Mr. Smith in the Matrix.

Whatever… I’m sure things will begin to get clearer as I go along… at least that is my hope.

When you’re young you have a drive to “become” something… build toward a satisfying career… let the hormones rage and have lots of sex… find a mate… get married… ranch babies… get the house and picket fence… fit into a dynamic like puzzle pieces. Now I feel like the lost puzzle piece… like somewhere there’s this completed puzzle with a piece missing and it’s me… but I’ll never find it because its time has come and gone. I suppose I’m feeling sorry for myself, just a little bit.

But I’m tired, too. Of being in a wife persona… or a mother one (though I don’t suppose we ever stop being one of those once we pop out a kid). I don’t think Gabriel appreciates me for who I am as an individual. I’m merely a provider of mom-ish stuff like clean laundry and meals and allowance and nagging about homework. He’s too busy with discovering himself to really see me clearly… and maybe I don’t see myself clearly either, so how can he?

So… I’ve successfully managed to alienate myself from any close ties, and have but a handful of friends, most of them also rather impersonal at this point, so not anyone I’d feel comfortable deeply confiding in or asking to borrow money from, in a pinch. It’s all very Howard Hughes-ish but I can’t even be the rich eccentric–I am instead to be the poor one. You know, over the last year and a half or so I’ve had to pawn most of my mother’s jewelry so that I could keep us in groceries when the next pay check was too far away. It’s probably my inability to manage money properly that’s to blame, and a string of unfortunate events that put me in a jam that seems to never find its end.

I’m in midlife and still wondering when I’ll have the wherewithal to equip and prepare myself for the rest of my life. Everyone who really gave any shit about me is gone, and I don’t think there’s anyone left that really cares. (Oh… there’s the pity party raging again.)

And another scary thing… that faith that I’ve carried with me for the longest time… the one I had in a higher power, that I’d turn to for comfort and strength? I’ve lost faith in it. I don’t think there is a god, and religion is all a load of hooey… something humans constructed in order to give their miserable lives meaning, or to give themselves more purpose than there is any right to be.

Random… I think it’s all random… not even luck, just a numbers game without any rhyme or reason to how things fall. Maybe it’s true about that quantum physics stuff… the part about our observing something affecting the outcome. Maybe if we expect shit we’ll get it whereas if we expect gold we’ll get that too. But I don’t think it has anything to do with worthiness or of being deserving or not, or based on good deeds done or undone, or repentance… or our being at the mercy of some benevolent patriarchal megalomaniac.

So… I haven’t been able to create in a while. I guess being disillusioned and feeling hopeless isn’t conducive to a prolific creative output.

So each day I have to remind myself of the things that I am grateful for. Like a sunny day, or some flowers blooming, or a good piece of chocolate, or a hug from my child, or the fact that I don’t have to drive a car to get to work, or that there’s enough food in the fridge until my next pay day and a bit of cash in my pocket to spare, in case of a small emergency. I’m fucked if it’s a big one.

Anyway… thinking of you in between my bouts of cranky… hope you’re holding up well.

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4 thoughts on “Sometimes it does get better… sometimes it doesn’t

  1. kimpdx

    Sending you lots of love. I could hear echoes of myself in what you wrote. And truly, though we’ve never met in person, I’ve always felt such an affinity for you, and I do wish we could meet face-to-face someday. Meanwhile, if you do need someone to call let me know. I’ll send you my numbers.

    I know where you are now it’s hard to see yourself. From over here, you look like a wonderful woman who is dealing with a big bunch of ongoing garbage. Sometimes life sends us years and years like that, and it’s totally okay that it has you down.

    Oh, I would like to go on and on, but I hope you get the idea! I think you’re great, and I’m glad to see a post from you, and I think your work is real. There’s a lot of truth and depth in what you’ve shown here, and very few people have the courage to show that to the world.

    Take care, dear!

  2. theartsyfartsychick Post author

    Thank you, Kim. I have always felt the same about you. It’s easy to feel alone and isolated in our misery, thinking we are “the only one” who is so afflicted… but more often than not our ailments are more common than we’d like. So once again I’m showing up to begin the healing process anew… but I am grateful that I can share it with others and that they may, perchance, understand.

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