WHEN YOU WONDER WHY

Coming home to an empty house is a blessing sometimes. There’s no need to feel accountable to the chores waiting, since no kids are home to see me avoiding them. There’s no need to be present to the kids and feel the need to pay attention to their stories or whether or not they had dinner. Most days it is a gift to be a mom, a gift to be a homeowner, an employee, a friend. Sometimes, however, the need to be alone is a strong desire. Sometimes the weight of the world feels like it is crushing you. It becomes hard to even get a breath.

The house is empty, deep breath in and exhale. I change into my favorite cozy sweatpants and tank top, wash off all my make-up and climb into bed. It’s only 6:30 but who cares? No one is here to judge me. I put on the tv, grab my laptop and just start to think. Why? Why do I even get up some mornings? Why do I exist? What’s the point in waking up every day to face another 24 hours of anxiety, self-doubt, physical and emotional pain and endless responsibilities? I sometimes feel like I have been fighting my entire life to find the happiness and peace that I have longed for, and I wonder just how long I have to keep fighting.

Falling asleep, the memories and thoughts flood in. All the things I missed out on, all the horrific things that happened. Asleep, the dreams come but it’s like being in some terrible space of existence. Jolted awake, tears rolling down my cheek. Where are the tears coming from? What was that dream? Falling back to sleep, trying to remember what it was to no avail. The night is long. Falling asleep, waking, falling asleep, waking. It’s 6:30 and there are hints of the sun rising, I mind as well wake up. I make some coffee, climb back into bed and try to convince myself that there is purpose to my day. I know all the things I want to do. I know how I want to feel and what I want my day to look like. The problem is that my insides don’t match. My insides want to stay in bed all day and watch tv and allow myself to get swallowed up by all the thoughts and emotions.

Is it possible to write our own destiny? Can we really be the orchestrator of our own life? Is “fake it till you make it” a real thing? If I pretend to be happy, will happiness come to me? If I pretend to be at peace, will peacefulness arrive? When I redecorate a room to look like something that I saw in a magazine and admired, does it really bring me joy? Maybe momentarily but it’s fleeting because inside something is missing. I’ve begun to realize that I am trying to fill a hole with all these trivial, external things and that’s not going to work. This hole is deep, and it’s eroded by deep wounds. I try to fix the hole by pouring what I think is a soothing substance into it but quickly that substance absorbs into the eroded walls and then it begins to ache again.

The substances I use are sometimes shopping, other times it is music or books. Sometimes it is escaping through sleep or through throwing myself into work or projects. None of these things work however, because I’m not getting rid of the cause of the erosion. I guess that should be where I begin. The things that are causing that hole to crumble apart.