Are you complaining?
Yes, but I know my place.
Sure?
Are you?
I got admonished for having first world problems today. Instead of being endlessly grateful for my car, home, healthy boys and children, larder full of food, etc. etc, I had a little bit of a spoiled meltdown because the stress of not having any downtime to think for five minutes caught up and passed me, leaving me in a cloud of dust so thick I began to cough, choking on the potential of my squandered history of absorbing all the attention to be had within a twenty-mile radius. I'm not very good at balancing things, managing my free time or panicking over very normal things like flat tires, missed appointments or empty pantries. I've said that before though. I'm a planner, I'm organized and when I can't be in the way that I want, life goes nuclear for me for a bit and I have to hyperventilate myself to sleep and try again another day.
I'm not sure how people who have it all are supposed to be some sort of level, content, bland robots all the time but apparently that's how it works? Do they not worry or feel pressured or have bad fucking days, maybe?
Of course they do.
Well, then that's what I'm having and I don't need a lecture.
He bit his lip. Maybe we should have gone to church.
I laughed. Maybe. But then I'd have even less time than I do now and I just wish I could figure out the thinking part. To be able to think instead of being too tired. To be able to plan some projects or live past the end of the day ahead of me just a little. I went from living in the happily ever after to living in the moment and I need to switch it back and suddenly I can't. Maybe it's a bad time to write but I have to get something out or I won't have anything and the inside of my skull fills up with words and starts to ache and I don't know how to fix that but it usually ends up with my head exploding and the wrong words raining down on the wrong people, toxic clouds of letters rearranged with meanings they were never meant to represent, and then I don't have a face anymore and no one can see me and-
Leave her with me. She'll be fine tomorrow. Caleb's voice cuts through the chatter and my body goes into some sort of thankful, resigned flight mode. That's how it works.
Yes, but I know my place.
Sure?
Are you?
I got admonished for having first world problems today. Instead of being endlessly grateful for my car, home, healthy boys and children, larder full of food, etc. etc, I had a little bit of a spoiled meltdown because the stress of not having any downtime to think for five minutes caught up and passed me, leaving me in a cloud of dust so thick I began to cough, choking on the potential of my squandered history of absorbing all the attention to be had within a twenty-mile radius. I'm not very good at balancing things, managing my free time or panicking over very normal things like flat tires, missed appointments or empty pantries. I've said that before though. I'm a planner, I'm organized and when I can't be in the way that I want, life goes nuclear for me for a bit and I have to hyperventilate myself to sleep and try again another day.
I'm not sure how people who have it all are supposed to be some sort of level, content, bland robots all the time but apparently that's how it works? Do they not worry or feel pressured or have bad fucking days, maybe?
Of course they do.
Well, then that's what I'm having and I don't need a lecture.
He bit his lip. Maybe we should have gone to church.
I laughed. Maybe. But then I'd have even less time than I do now and I just wish I could figure out the thinking part. To be able to think instead of being too tired. To be able to plan some projects or live past the end of the day ahead of me just a little. I went from living in the happily ever after to living in the moment and I need to switch it back and suddenly I can't. Maybe it's a bad time to write but I have to get something out or I won't have anything and the inside of my skull fills up with words and starts to ache and I don't know how to fix that but it usually ends up with my head exploding and the wrong words raining down on the wrong people, toxic clouds of letters rearranged with meanings they were never meant to represent, and then I don't have a face anymore and no one can see me and-
Leave her with me. She'll be fine tomorrow. Caleb's voice cuts through the chatter and my body goes into some sort of thankful, resigned flight mode. That's how it works.