I am wearing stirrup leggings from a thrift shop, one of my mother's old shirts (it smells like Shaklee detergent and sea air), and a cardigan from my cousin that feels like a cloud. I am sitting in a papasan chair (a gift from an ex-boyfriend from years gone by) on my front porch in my new neighborhood. I can hear the train and my favorite moody playlist on Spotify. My hands are stained orange from gardening this morning. I can smell my cocoa 'coffee' to my left and rain blowing in. My husband is watching his latest Netflix obsession inside and has a full day of distractions planned when and if I finish writing. I'm running through my grounding exercises, again.
Lately, I've been rawer than I'd like to admit, and this month - this week - today - all seem like a slap in the face. I'd like to just say that it's May, and I'm a teacher. That's my go-to when people ask about my lack of energy, the darkness under my eyes, the fact that I move like I'm bone-tired and sore. My heart and soul have taken a beating lately, and things don't feel quite right.
Don't get me wrong, there have been moments of hilarity and joy - I got to go to a street festival with my husband and my BFF's husband, and had a fantastic time. I learned things, joked around, saw beautiful artwork, and generally felt cherished (not only by two of my favorite guys but also by Katie who sent her spouse to be with me when she couldn't). Some jerk at the gym was creeping/being gross, and I took immense pride in the fact that I not only outran but also outlifted him. I had a memorable teacher's appreciation week. My niece is coming to stay for a while, I am full of excitement, and we've planned too many things to do with her. I fully realize how decadent it is that I'm on my front porch in solitude on 11am on a Sunday morning with Instacart groceries on the way.
Grief and depression are slippery beasts. This is a time of year full of babies and mothers and birth and growth and blossoming - but it tends to be the time of year I withdraw most within myself and try to do deep work with myself and my thoughts. And with my struggle to show grace each time I am wished a 'Happy Mother's Day'.
The gym attendant didn't mean it. The customer service lady from Instacart wasn't trying to hurt me. Nor was the sweet grad student who brought me almond milk from Publix. Or the older lady who brought my batteries from Aldi. My husband wasn't trying to gut me by putting off ordering presents for his own mother figures so long that I had to order them myself, just another instance of marital emotional labor. I didn't mean to forget to buy flowers for my own mother figures in my anxiety-induced panic.
In response to the thousands of tiny reminders and outright attacks, I've collected things to do like a collection of shells and sea glass. I pushed myself into another 10k training cycle, obsessed over the elimination diet I'm on and what vitamins I'm taking, offered to babysit and take friends out for dinner (and worried over being turned down by them), bought too many houseplants, carried weighty emotional burdens for others, sidelined my mental health, took on as much as I could at work to the point where I crashed and worried yet again about choices I've made about being childfree. All without wine or coffee because of the aforementioned elimination diet. Oh, and I am going to start my Ed.D. classes soon.
The matter is complex. I love children, or else I wouldn't be a teacher. Some of my students see it - although they usually don't see it immediately. I'm not the warm fuzzy type, although I am always available for a hug. I am not the 'cool mom' or the 'fun aunt'. I am definitely the 'auntie who has high expectations, makes sure you're in by curfew, background checks your date, will tell you like it is and will pick you up when you can't drive home without a second thought or nagging'. One of my sweet high schoolers said that this is needed, even if it isn't what kids want all the time. I treasured that moment, envisioning myself as Auntie Zelda from Sabrina - complete with a cigarette holder and red hair. There may be a day where we foster or adopt. I'm more than willing to have 'Auntie Liz Summer Camp' for my friends who are mothers so they can have a day or several off-duty. I have yet to be taken up on this, but we have space and the inclination.
When it comes to kids that I'd 'create'? The very thought of gestation makes me beyond ill, and the thought of one day leaving a child the way I was left makes me shudder. My genetics and my husband's aren't steller. All of the reasons not to are solid, correct reasons. I don't even know how I would begin to mother without a mother of my own. So I sit and listen to people comment on how we need to fill our house with children, and how we'd be good parents, and it makes me want to scream. Especially when they bring my own departed mother into it. Don't saddle me with that additional layer of guilt. I know all that my mother suffered through to give birth to me and raise me well enough without wrestling her ghost in my sleep about grandchildren. My grandmother, father, and aunt are all accepting of my choice - as was my recently departed grandfather. They may be mystified, but they know where I stand and stand in my corner with me.
And maybe I'm just in this muddled headspace because I'm craving being mothered, being held, and just resting in a space without pretense or expectations and being accepted as I am, whoever the hell that is these days. I've found new parts of myself as I age - odd, sharp, rigid pieces that don't seem to fit and not all of them are ones I like. I miss my mother and her mother. And I miss the years that I'll never get with them. I firmly believe I'd be a better person today if I'd had those years, months, days, minutes. Part of me just wants to know that they understand me and that somewhere in the universe they are proud. I know I'll never be larger than life and as impressive as either of them - but I can only wish I could capture some of their light.
Hug your littles closer, and call your mom. I know it may not be easy, but you have an opportunity that some would kill (or deck a creeper at the gym) to have. There's always more time until there isn't.
Lately, I've been rawer than I'd like to admit, and this month - this week - today - all seem like a slap in the face. I'd like to just say that it's May, and I'm a teacher. That's my go-to when people ask about my lack of energy, the darkness under my eyes, the fact that I move like I'm bone-tired and sore. My heart and soul have taken a beating lately, and things don't feel quite right.
Don't get me wrong, there have been moments of hilarity and joy - I got to go to a street festival with my husband and my BFF's husband, and had a fantastic time. I learned things, joked around, saw beautiful artwork, and generally felt cherished (not only by two of my favorite guys but also by Katie who sent her spouse to be with me when she couldn't). Some jerk at the gym was creeping/being gross, and I took immense pride in the fact that I not only outran but also outlifted him. I had a memorable teacher's appreciation week. My niece is coming to stay for a while, I am full of excitement, and we've planned too many things to do with her. I fully realize how decadent it is that I'm on my front porch in solitude on 11am on a Sunday morning with Instacart groceries on the way.
Grief and depression are slippery beasts. This is a time of year full of babies and mothers and birth and growth and blossoming - but it tends to be the time of year I withdraw most within myself and try to do deep work with myself and my thoughts. And with my struggle to show grace each time I am wished a 'Happy Mother's Day'.
The gym attendant didn't mean it. The customer service lady from Instacart wasn't trying to hurt me. Nor was the sweet grad student who brought me almond milk from Publix. Or the older lady who brought my batteries from Aldi. My husband wasn't trying to gut me by putting off ordering presents for his own mother figures so long that I had to order them myself, just another instance of marital emotional labor. I didn't mean to forget to buy flowers for my own mother figures in my anxiety-induced panic.
In response to the thousands of tiny reminders and outright attacks, I've collected things to do like a collection of shells and sea glass. I pushed myself into another 10k training cycle, obsessed over the elimination diet I'm on and what vitamins I'm taking, offered to babysit and take friends out for dinner (and worried over being turned down by them), bought too many houseplants, carried weighty emotional burdens for others, sidelined my mental health, took on as much as I could at work to the point where I crashed and worried yet again about choices I've made about being childfree. All without wine or coffee because of the aforementioned elimination diet. Oh, and I am going to start my Ed.D. classes soon.
The matter is complex. I love children, or else I wouldn't be a teacher. Some of my students see it - although they usually don't see it immediately. I'm not the warm fuzzy type, although I am always available for a hug. I am not the 'cool mom' or the 'fun aunt'. I am definitely the 'auntie who has high expectations, makes sure you're in by curfew, background checks your date, will tell you like it is and will pick you up when you can't drive home without a second thought or nagging'. One of my sweet high schoolers said that this is needed, even if it isn't what kids want all the time. I treasured that moment, envisioning myself as Auntie Zelda from Sabrina - complete with a cigarette holder and red hair. There may be a day where we foster or adopt. I'm more than willing to have 'Auntie Liz Summer Camp' for my friends who are mothers so they can have a day or several off-duty. I have yet to be taken up on this, but we have space and the inclination.
When it comes to kids that I'd 'create'? The very thought of gestation makes me beyond ill, and the thought of one day leaving a child the way I was left makes me shudder. My genetics and my husband's aren't steller. All of the reasons not to are solid, correct reasons. I don't even know how I would begin to mother without a mother of my own. So I sit and listen to people comment on how we need to fill our house with children, and how we'd be good parents, and it makes me want to scream. Especially when they bring my own departed mother into it. Don't saddle me with that additional layer of guilt. I know all that my mother suffered through to give birth to me and raise me well enough without wrestling her ghost in my sleep about grandchildren. My grandmother, father, and aunt are all accepting of my choice - as was my recently departed grandfather. They may be mystified, but they know where I stand and stand in my corner with me.
And maybe I'm just in this muddled headspace because I'm craving being mothered, being held, and just resting in a space without pretense or expectations and being accepted as I am, whoever the hell that is these days. I've found new parts of myself as I age - odd, sharp, rigid pieces that don't seem to fit and not all of them are ones I like. I miss my mother and her mother. And I miss the years that I'll never get with them. I firmly believe I'd be a better person today if I'd had those years, months, days, minutes. Part of me just wants to know that they understand me and that somewhere in the universe they are proud. I know I'll never be larger than life and as impressive as either of them - but I can only wish I could capture some of their light.
Hug your littles closer, and call your mom. I know it may not be easy, but you have an opportunity that some would kill (or deck a creeper at the gym) to have. There's always more time until there isn't.
