This is hard — so damn hard. I just want to curl up in a ball, in my son’s tipi house, and shut my eyes. Have him play there, next to me, telling stories and building an imaginary world. I like his imaginary world, it’s much better than the real one. In his world, jumping in muddy puddles is a game — no one gets mad, no one gets cold. In my world, the rain wets you to the bone and makes the skies fall. In my world, I deal with business, with people I don’t care to see, over matters I don’t care about. To earn a little money, to pay for our life — but I feel I am paying with my own life.
This is hard. Sometimes — often — I feel I am unfit for this whole motherhood thing. It’s not about being a good or bad mother, it’s about being able to deal with the emotions that come with it. Everything is exponential, every pain, every joy, every fear, and the love — oh, the love. How am I supposed to deal with it? How do the others do? Outside I look the part, I look composed — inside I feel I can break apart any moment.
This is hard. I just want to write — but inspiration is running dry. Or rather corporations are now running my show. Ever since we got back to the civilised world, the race has taken over again and something has shut inside. The very thing I worked so hard for months to open. I don’t want to let that happen…
This is hard. I don’t need much in life. My son and my husband next to me, healthy. The sun on my skin and my feet in the water. It’s not that much, is it? A little security for when we grow older, and the ability to help my son build his future. It’s not that much — but it’s still a whole lot. It still brings me back — to business. Can’t I just write in the mornings and swim in the ocean in the afternoons? Run on the beach with mini me, build an imaginary house in the reefs and eat sun grown granadinas? Do I need a business plan even for that?
This is so damn hard. I can’t think straight, I don’t see the light. The day is over and so is my drive. Hoping the dark will heal my wounds, I am surrendering into Morpheus’s arms — at least for the night.
