I feel out of sorts; unable to settle. Do you ever get that? I’m not really sure why. I’m always anxious about the children and their future, about how I fail them constantly, about how I should do ‘more’, of whatever it is I’m currently obsessed about. And I shut down. I end up doing nothing. I’ve picked up knitting, and put it down; I’ve picked up paints, then put them away; I’ve planned exciting things to do, then cancelled.
People say ‘fake it till you make it’, but I honestly think my life is one long fake. So I go through the motions not really knowing what the game plan is, or where we’re heading, or whether things will be OK. I plod on, alone, in these endless feelings of failure.
I think what makes it all right are nights in front of the fire eating rice pudding by lamplight as the boys either play games or watch footy. Maybe I’m under-estimating the restorative benefits of simple togetherness. I’m not sure it will be enough, but as that’s all I’ve got it will have to do.
Ever want to stick two fingers up to it all to go live in a shack on a mountain somewhere?