Maybe some people are just born that way. Artistic freedom abounds from people who on a daily basis reach out for some hope that someone out there will show them just a quick piece of kindness. A smile, a pat on the back. How many people like me can feel their insides pulling more in in the hopes that someday no one will notice that they are shrinking away and they will finally disappear.
I used to be a control freak. I had to have everything my way. I went too far to that side, like the Darth Vader of control, and had to give that up for the mental health of those around me. Now I have no control at all. I work hard, I clean hard, I do all the momsense things that one is supposed to and obligate to, MARRIED to if you will that I am supposed to do, and I get no consideration for it. I'm told that what I do, all that I do, it isn't enough. All of the everything that push through day in and day out resulting in my body giving in and my mind having already gone and no one even mutters a thankyou or a HEY you look nice today Dee. Nada. Diddly.
Admittedly, I do have a really hard time just LETTING GO. It's not in my nature. It never has been. To say that I am one who wears her emotion on her sleeve is like asking someone if they have a clue about how Donald Trump feels about money. I am completely driven in life by my emotion and my sadness. I always thought it was just the immature whining of a post-teen drama queen but the longer I muddle through, the longer I realize that it is my nature, and that I am hating myself for it.
So the past few months I've set myself on organization. I'm trying to clean the outside so that the inside will feel better. I don't think that this will work to be honest. I mean the house is cleaner, which is nice. I'm painting rooms and putting clothes away and replacing fixtures. It's not hard, you just have to be motivated to do it. Then outside, next to the kitchen, there is a huge weed. It's crawling into the boards on the outside of the house and opening up the wood to entice ants into the place where we throw crumbs around in frivolous fervor. It's almost reaching the door and soon we wont be able to leave through that door for fear of being entangled in its vinery mess. No matter how clean and perfect I make it on the inside, cleaned up rooms, toys on shelves, dishes in cabinets and folded clothes in drawers, that vine looks at me, growing at an alarming rate, and no one is there to help me to cut it down.
Eventually, the vine will come inside and take me. I keep asking, but no one cares or shows concern about it but me, and I just can't fight this weed anymore. So hopefully, eventually, it will either die, or it will take me away, off my stoop, never to be seen again.
