It’s 4:30 in the morning and I woke up from a dead sleep and could not go back. My brain began listing the endless ways I could “fix my life” and because I could not get it to quiet, I pulled my body upright to sit at the kitchen table with some caffeine and a pen because the best thing I can do right now is write. Not because I’m good at it, not because there will be some giant shiny answer, but because that is how I get through.
I write. But what do you write?
Words on paper. Problems and complaints. That’s what I write.
I come to the page every day with what amounts to the same problems and complaints. Always about myself and the endless ways I could be better. A better mother, friend, daughter, person. I come to the page hoping to find relief from a war I wage against myself for reasons I do not understand.
Yet here’s the thing. I get up every day and do the best I can with all the resources I have. I keep getting up even when things feel as though they are stacked against me. I get up over and over again and still I am frustrated much of the time.
Why? Is this my fault? How do I change it? How do I be the “better” I am always demanding of myself? There is no answer. This is just what is means to be human for me right now.