My Zany Mind

This evening I want to do something grand. I want this evening to be special. I want to remember it. I don’t want it to be just another mundane Sunday night. I suppose that it probably will fall into the mundane, but oh how I wish for something more.

I want to go out for a walk like I used to do, after dark, when the fireflies light up the fields and the trees that lean over my one lane country road. I want to once again feel free. I want to stop feeling like like my life has stopped or like my entire body is on pause. I want to feel alive again.

I read somewhere once that the cage isn’t locked. If not, why does it feel locked? When I rattle the bars, the iron door doesn’t creak open. Am I really the one holding it locked tight?

I know I can be somebody. I know I am somebody. I just don’t know who that somebody is. I feel like a stranger’s living my life while I wait inside me for the time when I get to live. Does anyone else ever feel that way? Surely I’m not alone.

All I know is that there’s passion in me somewhere. It’s just that it’s been trapped. I’ve been afraid of the consequences of letting it out. I have tried to pour myself into the socially acceptable roles of daughter, sister, wife. The thing is that those roles are not enough. It is not enough for me to identify only with who I am to other people. What about who I am to me? What about my own identity simply for the sake of identity? What about my creativity, my dreams, the wildflowers and weeds that grow like crazy in my mixed up mind?

I want to go through my mind and pick a bouquet of all of these shoots and sprays of zaniness. I want to place them where I can see them, where they are prominent, place them where I see them first thing upon waking, not hide them in a corner of my closet and pretend that, ever since I became someone’s spouse, I stopped dreaming and gave up myself. I don’t want to give up on any more of me than I’ve already given up on. I’m tired of pretending that who I am and what I want don’t matter, that all that matters is making my husband happy. I’m tired of settling for less than my authentic self.

I can do this. I can open up again. I can be me again. I can be free again. I can speak my mind without fear again. Not just one day. Not just someday. Today. I’m starting today.

Yes, this is an anonymous blog. Yes, I am not sharing this with my husband. Yes, I am also not sharing it with my friends and family, but I am taking the first step to becoming strong and free and independent. I’m getting these words out, even if it has to be in a cloak and dagger way.

Is it a crime to be too honest?

I’ve never been particularly good at pretending to be someone I’m not. I’ve always had this streak of honesty that can be, I’ll admit it, embarrassing at times. It’s made me careful who I surround myself with and also very protective of the personal details of my life.

There are only a few people who know that I’m unhappy in my marriage. There are only a few people who know that I plan on leaving. It’s this glaring omission to me. It makes me feel like a liar, even though I feel like I’m doing what’s right for me right now.

I’m in therapy, where I talk about leaving, among other things. I wish I didn’t feel so alone in this. I feel like I’ll be hurting so many people by leaving. I feel like I’ll hurt my kids. I know I will. And my H will be devastated. I feel like my family will be disappointed in me too. I feel so alone.

A Rainy Father’s Day

I just downloaded a WordPress app for my phone, which I’m hoping will help me to use this blog more often.

It’s raining outside now, and there are birds calling in the trees. Somewhere there is probably a rainbow, because there’s also a small amount of sun. I’m standing in the kitchen looking out into the yard, across the field and to the old barn. From where I’m standing, I can just see the roof as the rest of the barn’s behind the curve of the hill.

It’s afternoon, another Father’s Day, and I don’t know how to celebrate. I gave out cards and balloons, but how do you really thank someone when they’ve given so much of themselves? I suppose you just muddle through the best you can.

when joie de vivre goes missing

I’ve always been a dreamer, always seen myself as having something about me that is more than what I show the people in my life. I suppose I see myself as having a secret side that I either don’t know how or don’t want to share. Maybe there is too much risk in sharing something so personal. Maybe it is a fear of rejection or a fear of being hurt again just when I’m finally able to be vulnerable.

Whatever the case, several years ago, I stopped writing. The words got stuck somewhere in the plumbing of my mind. What used to flow freely became clogged and stagnant. When words did ooze out, they disappointed me more than inspired me to write more. I felt like I was failing every time I put words down onto paper.

In addition to the feeling of failing, my H began to read my journal when I went somewhere. I’d come back from running errands or going to the park with the kids, only to be faced with an angry confrontation because something that I wrote about him was less than favorable.

All things combined, I just couldn’t write anymore. One kind woman I knew told me that sometimes the soul goes into hibernation. I liked her way of explaining it. That way, I didn’t have to face the fact that maybe the creative part of me had died. I was instead able to rest in the certainty that, someday, it would wake back up again.

I hope someday my creativity will come back. I hope I won’t continue to be barren of passion and intensity. I hope that my spark, my joie de vivre will return. Maybe this year will be the one where I come back to life, the one where I start to live again, where the words wake up inside me and begin to flow again. A girl can dream.