Picture this. It’s Mother’s Day. And I’m sad. Like, really sad.
And kind of mad. But I don’t know why.
I mean, yes, I’m freaking ravenous (slightly long story) so maybe it’s that but it’s not really. That doesn’t build the tears behind my eyes or the scream in my chest. That didn’t create the gray cloud hanging overhead.
What is wrong with me?
I sift through my mind and my heart and the pit of my stomach. Assess, assume, connect, compare, infer. I have no control over my life. I’ve worked it, built it, merged it, made it. One obstacle, anniversary, accomplishment, opportunity at a time. And now here I am living it. And I can’t get out.
I can hardly speed up or slow down.
I can respond. I can cope. I can challenge my perspective. I can live one ah-ha to the next. I can strive and I can push and I can vacillate. I can pull back. I can shift focus. I can plan for the future. I can be more in the present. I can process the past. I can juggle.
But I can’t drop a ball. And I can’t find a minute to take. I obviously can’t stop time. I can’t quiet the voices in my head/heart/soul. I can’t do it all. And I’ll be damned if I throw this one life away trying.
Is this being thirty now? Existential, mid-life crisis shit? Is this finding myself in a place both chaotic and predictable enough to have me standing at the edge of this life/season, looking thoughtfully at the expansive world beyond? Am I looking for more?
Am I looking for less?
Sometimes I do feel trapped in my own life. I’m trapped in my head, trapped in my choices, trapped in my successes (haunted by my failures), trapped in security and predictability and comfort. Trapped in the rat race and unrelentingly polished (worn?) by the stream of society.
It’s like a bad suburban, white girl, housewife, #firstworldproblem, privileged and predictable sob story. I know that. But it’s my story.
On Mother’s Day I had this epiphany that I am trapped in my life.
What followed was a teary conversation with the one who is committed (possibly sentenced) to walk/fly/skip/hop/crawl this life with me. Elaborations on much of what was written above (but the concrete versions: messes, maintenance, money, managing, moving). Followed by McMenamins.
Mother’s Day 2015.
It feels like more than a funny-or-not-so-funny family story. More than an unexpected answer to “How was your Mother’s Day?” It feels like a precursor. I just don’t know to what yet.