a routine, of sorts, is in place.
wake, eat, walk, play, eat, rest, play.
wait for daddy to come home.
anxiety, inadequacy, fear are part of the routine. a television on a constant loop, drowning myself in chatter.
maybe to feel less alone.
maybe to ignore my own thoughts.
restlessness reveals my weakness quickly, however, hands itching to create, throat itching to speak–
ignored, pressed down, once again.
where determination should live, fear resides. coils around my neck, whispers into my ear.
‘freak. failure. weak. vile. inadequate. pathetic.’ wrapping tighter, tighter, until it is difficult to breathe.
torn between three roles. wife. mama. me.
how to reconcile them?
is it healthy, or selfish? am i justified, or self-centered?
on goes the tv again–cannot face these questions.
vicarious living–photos, films, thoughts. each carefully constructed, flawlessly delivered–proving inadequacy once again.
am i allowed ambition, with a family to care for? am i allowed a dream?
restless days turn into restless nights, waking again and again to contemplate failure and possibility.
i long for new beginnings, change, but am caught in quicksand, sinking further as i struggle.
life is not to be distracted, but to be lived.
i set another snack between my lips, push play again, ignore the thought.