And so it is happening again. That moment on a Friday when I question what my purpose is.
Truthfully though, this is something that happens most days, and my reaction most days, is to have a drink of wine. There, I said it. I admitted it. I drink. Not drunk drink, but one or two glasses regularly drink. The drinking has not been a continual feature, in fact it has only been since hitting the depression cycle a couple of weeks ago. Until then I had been sober R. As sober as they come. Anyway, I am about to pour myself a glass to avoid the thoughts of not being good enough. Good enough at writing. Good enough at sewing. Good enough at mummy-ing. Good enough at wife-ing. Good enough at being.
Breathe. Be present. Really though, I just want to shout cuss words at the screen because I am sick of this reel now. It was so yesterday. So last week’s story. That trash went out along with the selfie stick. And Gangnam. Like hair spray without the spray. Or Hairspray without the Hair. It is just does not seem to fit anymore. And so I drink to relax and to stop the reel, to give my brain and sense of self a break. It is okay not to be perfect, to be the best, to be ‘just good enough’. I keep telling myself the story that as long as I am me, and that I am here, that is what is important. But it just does not sound true.
Today I smiled at most people and said that everything was great. That I was loving my time with Master X. I mean, some days and moments I do. But I was there because I was escaping another day of painful screaming from teething and I had to take a moment this morning to avoid having a temper tantrum myself.
Talk about regression.
It is good to know that my acting skills are still serving me well when I can pretend to an audience that we are all good. That we are not recovering from PND, psychotic episode and being most recently alerted to bipolar disorder. Or that my body is failing me and that walk that you saw me do whilst carrying my son in a ring sling is my only ‘exercise’ today for fear my pelvis will explode into a fireworks of pain tonight that will see me unable to shift from the couch while I drink my wine.
I know that the wine is feeding my cloudy head. But the swirl of ‘must do something’, ‘you are not doing enough’ compromised by my actual ability to concentrate is nil. As in, I cannot concentrate at the moment. I have no will to do much although my brain is swirling. My motivation is zip, nada, zero, nothing, absent, gone, disappeared, unknown.
And I am left sitting here yet again, enjoying my delicious seven dollar Aldi wine watching trashy television and avoiding my ‘hobbies’ because they will never be good enough because I do not have the motivation or patience at the moment. And I am not sure that I ever did have the drive to be careful and precise with my hobbies. And that is what is feeding the beast, this circle of hope against the truth.