Last year, I was pushing myself to write, every day. Through illness, stress, and everything. I wrote. That all came to a shuddering halt when I got sick (again) in November. No idea with what - other than a negative Covid test, the medical field was completely uninterested in me. 'Stay far away from us,' they basically said. 'We don't care what's wrong with you as long as it's not Covid.' Demoralizing, and left me struggling just to do the bare minimum of work and family. I am physically recovered. Most days. The writing? Hasn't fully come back online, although I am writing again, finally.
I spent my day today with a test that required my physical presence, but not so much on the mental. Which means I had this lovely thing percolating through my brain all day. Until I got home. After I'd done my usual routine of checking in with son and husband and dinner...
I'm sitting here staring at what I dictated, and thinking "I wonder what life would be like if I came home from work and had no work obligations?"
What if?
I mean, I can and do watch TV. Sometimes. The Little Man has two shows he insists we watch together every week, and it's fun because we talk plots, characters, world-building, and in one of them, I kvell about the portrayal of the criminal justice system (are there any Hollyweird shows that get it right?) This is a good thing for both of us, and I look forward to it. I also use Chopped for background noise. It doesn't require me to pay a huge amount of attention, although sometimes it makes me want to get up and cook!
I could read. Oh, I have so many books! My tsundoku will never subside, I know this. And I could take the time to read every night, maybe take notes. Learn things. Exercise my mind. I do this, as much as I can. It's not that I don't read, I just don't read to satiation. I'm not sure I can!
I could sleep. Well, maybe not. The days where I could lay down and sleep the night and more are gone. I'm having trouble getting my mind to stop and let me sleep enough. I get sick if I don't sleep a bare minimum.
I complain a lot. I don't mean to. But when I sit down at the end of a long day like this, that's all that is left. This sense of loss and guilt. That I hadn't done enough. That I cannot do enough. And I wonder, some nights, what it would be like to not have this feeling.
I'm not sure that's possible. I'm just writing what falls out of my head, now, and the internal struggle is more evident here, on the page. I never intended the blog to be my journal, and it isn't entirely. There are times I don't dare open up the new post window. I'm afraid of what would come out. I do filter, really! So why do I let posts like this one, so introspective, see the public eye? Perhaps I'm not the only one. There's struggle for us all, and it would be disingenuous of me to conceal mine. I don't think I could, tell the truth. I'm too transparent.
I'm tired. I'll feel better when I've gotten some rest.