I ask myself what I’m doing. Often.
I run around, chasing after something that doesn’t have a shape or name, I just know I need to catch up to it. To grab onto it. Maybe then, I’ll know what this elusive something or other is.
That encompasses so much of my life; career, family…you name it. Knowing I want something more yet not knowing exactly what it is or how to get there. It’s quite frustrating.
When I sit down at the kitchen table, my desk, in order to “work”, I spend much of my time staring out the huge kitchen window. I’m not really seeing anything, I’m simply staring. It’s funny because, when I was in 7th grade English, we had to write a paragraph about a person in our class. The girl who wrote about me, Debbie, mentioned how I sit and stare as though I’m deep in thought.
I’m not. There is no deep. Just thought. And I have no clue half the time what I’m even thinking about. Daydreams, maybe?
Sometimes I play a scenario in my mind. I was “discovered” via my blog because of my writing. And I was invited to be on a talk show to discuss my success and how I achieved it. Ha.
I think about all the stories I have written. And unwritten. All of them have beginnings and they are waiting, somewhat impatiently, for a middle and an end. Yet, I don’t know what keeps me from finishing them…or anything else…other than myself. Fear? Of failure? Gah, who knows.
I seem to do that a lot. Throw up my hands, shrug my shoulders and walk away. Especially when I don’t know what to do or what to say. So, I give up.
It’s an annoying trait that I have. It’s been with me for so long that it’s interwoven within my DNA structure.
Right now, I’m in the process of the whole giving up thing with my oldest son. I don’t want to. But I don’t know what else to do. It’s the whole “horse to water” thing. I can only nudge him so much but I can’t make him care. I wish I could. I wish I could make him really understand that his not caring will dictate how the rest of his life goes. I’m met with very familiar shoulder shrugs, eye rolls and whispered “whatever”‘s.
My lack of control over my children has me doubting my parenting. I thought I was a good mom. By showering my children with love, letting them know how wonderful I think they are and all the other things my heart tells me to do, I figured they would thrive. I assumed that they would have the confidence to know that they were amazing and therefore, they’d want to DO amazingly at whatever they chose to do.
I was so wrong.
My children, my dreams, my goals…they are all interwoven. And I feel like if I am not successful at one, how can I be successful at any other?
I’ve never been THAT parent, the one that lives vicariously through their own children. I mean, yes, I had high hopes that one of my daughters would grow up to be a Prima Ballerina…or at the very least, love ballet the way that I did.
Now I’m just hoping that they get through high school with good enough grades to get into a decent college. My fingers hurt from keeping them crossed so tightly.
When my parents always told me that life would be hard, I really wish that they had prepared me for how hard it really is. I mean…EVERYTHING about life gets hard. Especially once you move out of your parents house and are set free to make it on your own.
Then, I watch all these horrible tragedies unfolding. Family friends losing spouses at young ages. Parents dying too young. The worlds economy crashing. Life stories that actually read more like horror novels than chick lit. I wonder why.
So maybe, in the recesses of my mind, as I’m staring out the window and daydreaming from my kitchen table, I’m trying to make sense of it all. I’m trying to figure out how to guide ALL OF US from point A to point B successfully…without any road map. But goddamnit, it’s hard. I get turned around when I’m walking out of an elevator at a hotel, how can I be expected to guide people on this crazy life’s journey?
I really wish that life came with a road map and a handbook. Because I could really, really, really use one right now.