I’m not Doing so Well

Its come to my attention that I’m doing so hot.

 

I’m not sure if it’s simply this story that I’m writing. Even though it’s not angst, it’s close to home. It’s a part of what’s going on with my mum that I’ve never really been able to even feel.

I’m really not good with emotions.

I’m okay with what other are giving me. Sometime I know better than I even understand, and sometimes I understand it until I get home and start worrying that I’ve interpreted shit wrong.

But feeling them?

Knowing what I feel?

That’s something I’ve never been good at.

 

Maybe it’s the depression, and the fact that even though I’m open about it, and I do what I’ve always done, I’m still ashamed that I suffer from it. That I can’t stop suffering from it. I’m trying. Trying for my children to live in a house that doesn’t hide things like this away, because one of them (mostly my son) might suffer from it and he needs to be able to deal with it, but more so, he needs to be able to understand that it’s not a bad thing. That’s it’s not something to be hidden in the darkness and never spoken about.

 

Doesn’t mean that I’m able to really show them.

I’m not able to talk about it. To understand the emotion I’m going through until I’m over them. Until I’m ready to open up and see that I’ve slump.

 

Tonight I’ll call it lake of sleep, because I’ve had some shitty nights, where I haven’t gone to sleep til late and woken up way to early, to spend the day not eating and stewing in a place I’m not aware I’m in.

 

I think, on a lot of levels this book, writing now is what’s allowed me to see things. To understand what I’m feeling and how I’m reacting even if I’m not showing myself these things.

 

I went to macca’s with my sister today.

It’s a weekly thing, and yet the whole day I didn’t care. I’ve been stuck inside with my kids all week, I have this story that I’ve spoken very little about (to a Face to Face person) but more so I haven’t spoken to her at all about it.

I haven’t gushed—or I have, just not as much as I would have. Honestly, she probably knows more about any of my stories than anyone will even know. Including myself, because she’s my board, she’s the one that will sit and listen and talk to me about it all when I’m working it all out.

She’s the only one I don’t seem to notice how over it she is. And at some point she must be, but she never shows me that. She never makes me feel as if I’ve gone a little too far.

And yet, nothing.

 

So, that made me do this. Made me write something to people who probably won’t read because that’s what I do. This is what my dairies where like when I wrote them. me talking to someone else, even if no one was ever going to read them.

It’s more interesting that way. And I got more out, because it went round and round until the main point of it all spewed out of me.

 

The main point here.

I’m in trouble, and yet I still, talking here, a tear track down my cheek, I still don’t understand what I’m feeling. What I need to let go of or what I need to deal with in order to get over this step.

 

And Sis, if you’re reading, thanks. You helped more than I think you even realise you do. And if you do, keep it up. I need you, just to see.

 

So, I’m going to finish writing this bloody chapter, then I can finish this book and start on something that won’t pull me down along with it.

 

You can read a excerpt of the first chapters first draft here