Slump

I'm slumpin hard over here.

I don't know what my deal is.  I don't know if I need a hug or to be smacked around for a while, but I just can't get my head in the game.  The game of life, or whatever.  To borrow an overused-yet-apt phrase, it feels like a roller coaster, like as soon as I seem to get it together, and I'm motivated and inspired and having adequate energy and thinking clearly, a fog rolls in.  The tide goes out and I'm heavy on the wet sand.  My mind blanks, my energy saps, my willpower takes a nap, and all I want to do are things that sustain me for an instant and leave me feeling extra crappy in the long term.

I find my eating habits are a good barometer for how I'm doing in general.

The weather in my life has been an interesting mix of stormy and calm, lately.  It's confusing.  One minute everything seems like it's never been better: I've never felt better, my marriage has never been happier, my house has never felt so much like home, I've never loved my child more.  The next moment I'm climbing the walls.  Nothing gets done.  Clutter builds.  Patience vanishes.  Tears well up and repress or fall.  Tony said I was sleepwalking last night, or at least that I got up several times during the night and tossed and turned when I was in bed, though I remember none of it.  I felt like I slept good, I dreamt, but I woke up exhausted.  How is that helpful?  Waking up tired is a travesty that should throw the entire universe out of balance.

So, as far as this blog is concerned, I'm afraid I'm developing a pattern I've always worried I would do once I started writing, which is writing about only negative junk all the time.  I don't want to do that! It's just that, I guess when I'm feeling good, I don't have this same urge to write as when I'm feeling all bungled up.  Is bungled even a word?  I don't know.  The desire to write is there when things are peachy, but I always second-guess myself or decide that whatever I want to say is trivial and has probably already been said before.  Not that the negative stuff isn't or hasn't either, but the bungled me doesn't know what else to do.  The foggy, confused, desperate me is begging for some sort of release, some connection, and it's either whine to a computer screen or else consume all the chocolate and then beach myself on the floor while my precious little boy tries to entertain himself.  I hate that I just typed that, and I don't really want to push publish anymore. Because the thing is, I was such a good mom when James was a baby.  Really, I feel confident in saying I was pretty great.  But now that he needs me to move around and be more present, I'm falling behind.  I'm dropping the ball.  And oh, I so don't want to admit that to you, whoever is reading this, but it's the truth.  All the dreams and expectations I had for myself are crumbling in the reality of how I really mother in the day to day.

Please be gentle with my reality.  I want to apologize for it, but I won't - I'm trying to work on accepting me and things exactly as we are, and moving on from there.  I'm going to try and disperse the fog, and when I do I'll try to come back and write some of the good things I've been thinking about.  Try, try, try.  It seems like such a pitiful offering.  The good things are there, I promise; they just take more energy, and my stores are empty.