thorvalson.net : babble ether

Oh. God. Could it be the weather?

I think it's been officially declared that the inhabitants of this house are Going Through a Phase. The last few weeks, my brain has been swimming with all kinds of confusing and at times contradictory messages, all fighting to be the first to reach the surface, wanting to be the winner, wanting to be able to proclaim itself the Definitive Answer to Everything.

I'm fucking pooped.

It would seem my brain and I aren't getting on very well these days.

Last night, I went out for a couple of drinks after a bit of coaxing from Greg, who thought that a good night out of the house, away from so-called "reality", would cheer me up and clear my head a little. I wasn't sure about the "clearing my head" part, but agreed that being in the house without leaving for three straight days (okay, aside from 3 hours at work one day) was probably not helping. The numbing effect was good while it lasted - allowing myself to blissfully ignore the billions of fears swirling around in my head while half-listening to the half-conversations going on around and through me - but the thing about escape is that it's only temporary. And I wouldn't want it to be anything more than that. But there's something about the knowledge that it's temporary that prevents the little escape from being a true escape.

I listened to a 31-year-old lesbian I've met/waited on a few times talk about her girlfriend's father's death, how their relationship is or isn't accepted by various members of their respective families, and thought about how death is death and relationships are relationships no matter what your lifestyle is, no matter where you live, no matter what your nationality is, and felt the comfort of that thought. I told her my relationship is going through A Phase, that my boyfriend and I are each respectively going through A Phase, and that it's taking a toll on our relationship. We're growing, we're changing, and we're trying to keep track not only of ourselves but each other in the process...

This. Is. Hard. Work.

She said that everyone she's talked to recently has said the same thing. Maybe it's our age group, she says, maybe it's the weather. No one seems comfortable with themselves right now, and she can see that it's not just her and her relationship or me and my relationship because the whole goddamn neighborhood's sitting in the restaurant she works at on a Wednesday night, drinking like it's Saturday night. It feels as though each and every resident of Bay View, every relationship, is going through something that has pressurized one half of each of those relationships enough to force an explosion of empty, dizzy little diamonds out onto the streets and into the bars, their respective partners and better halves at home, probably sighing with relief.

So there I sat. Empty and dizzy.

We talked about work, about being grown-ups and wanting grown-up things like health insurance and vacation pay, but also being of the dreaded "artistic temperament" and therefore only finding true fulfillment in things that most likely will bring us neither insurance nor assurance of any kind of financial stability.

The last seven years of my life have been centered around fulfilling someone else's needs. Namely, Maddie. And thank god for that, or I'd have gotten myself into something really stupid and likely fatal by now. And she's getting to an age where she doesn't need me standing over her every waking moment telling her what to do. I still have to be around to help her tie her shoes and retrieve stuff from the top shelf and kiss her owies, but other than that, she's starting to figure out who she is, and she doesn't want any help in that process. Maddie. Loves. Dresses. Whether Mommy's a tomboy or not. She wants me to supply her sparkling, flowery dresses and then get the hell out of her way. Which, in some sense, is what every human being truly wants and should have. Not a supplier all their lives, but the right to be themselves without anyone trying to stop them. And I'm getting to an age where I find it not only acceptable, but necessary to be a bit more vocal about my personal needs and desires. And feeling pretty good about it most of the time. I don't like every human being I meet! I like the texture of liver and onions! AND THAT'S OKAY WITH ME. And if it's not okay with you, that's okay, too! JUST DON'T TRY TO STOP ME.

I'm coming to the realization that I've spent the last seven years raising a child and am suffering some kind of premature Empty Nest Syndrome, minus the actual empty nest. I have the time now to consider what I'd like to do with that time, and the problem is, I DON'T WANT TO CONSIDER IT right now. In some ways, life was easier when Maddie was a baby and all my time was mapped out according to her patterns of eating, shitting, and sleeping. Now there's all this pesky, mysterious space in between.

So all of this stuff has been swirling around in my head, and I really want to talk to my partner about it, but he's having a hard time listening to me right now because a) when I need to talk about something, it takes a lot of words (scroll up. or down.), and b) Have you read the last few entries? I'M OUTTA MY FUCKING MIND RIGHT NOW. ANNOYING, ISN'T IT., and c) I've been spending a lot of time worrying about (read: judging) him and his position and how it effects our relationship, when the main problem here has less to do with our relationship and everything to do with me being a woman and mother, of which he is neither, going through some major fucking changes, and d) I'm not looking for an immediate solution, I just need someone to talk to.

The ten thousand things rise and fall without cease.
Hold fast to the center.

Posted by stephanie at April 12, 2007 10:21 AM