My child is ill. I hate she has fever. If she had fever enough I’d give her some medicine and we’d get to sleep some.
I hate she’s connected to my boob to chew. I hate I can’t go brush my teeth and hang the laundry. I went to brush my teeth fifteen minutes ago and used the time to pick at my skin. I hate I’ve wasted the time.
I hate I’ll be a zombie tomorrow. I hate working sleepy. I hate I have this much work that I don’t do. I hate I’ll have to choose between work and staying home with her tomorrow. I hate myself for wishing the first option. I’m awful as a mother.
I hate that my children cling to me. Don’t they see I’m no good?
I hate hatred. I’m on the path to the dark side of the Force. No, I’m already there.
And so on.
I’ll go try to brush my teeth and stop complaining. I don’t have a choice of hatred. I only have the right to feel it sometimes. Awful. Still is. And I hate it.
After a weekend of two birthday parties, spent with my mother, grandmother, mother- and father-in-law, my father and my husband, a telephone call to my aunt, and the ordinary offspring drama, I was a ruin yesterday evening. This morning wasn’t much better.
After a day’s work and a vent to my coworkers, things look just a bit better today.
I wanted to post this post yesterday as a cry for help but couldn’t find a certain word and gave up.
In short, I’m thankful to be employed and to have coworkers.
An interesting fact: I gave birth on the exact date I have chosen.
I had a day, a reason, and I dared to believe I can influence fate (or my organism or whatever). I believed and I still do, Fate is as crazy as me. As crazy as anyone and as bored as to try something out of the ordinary now and then.
Well, the date was in the most likely week of my pregnancy to give birth in, to be honest. So I and Fate didn’t need much energy to make the arrangement.
I thought of this fact today after I saw a film about a Jewish woman who arranged her wedding on the exact date she had chosen and believed God would find her the right groom until then – if only she believed it, if only she was determined enough.
Belief is not the same as hope. She dated, travelled, tried hard, and also didn’t waver in her determination. She rejected a few men, and was rejected a few times. And voila, it happened.
This I call the power of belief and coincidence (a.k.a. alignment of fate).
My daughter’s birth was not something that was my business only, if we’re talking about higher purpose, it was at least my daughter’s business too. And the woman from the film needed a man who had a coinciding fate.
My belief is, anything is possible. There need to be belief, determination and coinciding fate of everyone involved.
Dare to dare and miracles will happen.
Thoughts I have occasionally:
I’m such an awful person, it’s better I’d be dead or far away from doing damage.
I’m such a different person than everybody else, I’ve hard time fitting in and I always struggle.
But yet again, different is not bad, different is good for the mass. I’m on the far side of a Gaussian distribution. We were always told the far side was better than the anonimity of the majority.
If nothing else, the few specimen that are out of the majority are at least good for biological (or sociological) diversity.
So I only need to find my place and use in this world.
The next bout of insidious thoughts:
If I don’t find a use for me, my diversity is for nought.
If I do find my use, but don’t do anything to be useful (like now), then I’m wasting my life. It will be taken from me (aka I’ll get terminally ill).
No conclusion yet:
I know I shouldn’t be thinking in this way, but this line of thoughts pops up a lot. I’m acknowledging it here, but I I’ll yet to think the way out.
Depression is like a call for acknowledgement, at least in a way, at least to me.
It’s a bit like “Look at me, I’m depressed, won’t you help me?!”
It’s a cry for help. (By the way, we (I) hide it. So no one actually hears this cry.) Many times, I feel depression as a tantrum. I want someone to notice, someone to see me as I am, to stand beside me and to comfort me. I’m too proud to point it out. Or maybe I believe only if someone noticed by themselves, would it mean they care about me. Then when I notice what I’m doing, I start to hate myself for it.
Most of the time, people don’t notice. This is the first fault in such my behaviour (using depression as a tool for getting attention). And again, one of the reasons I get depressed is not being independent. (Or, what came first, the chicken or the egg?) This is the second fault in my behaviour. I should start to learn to deal with my own problems. There’s nobody to do it for me.
What am I now? Sad? Angry?
I’m mostly satisfied to have analysed this thought.