Unpostable (a truth share)

(from TinyBuddha)
(or listen here)

Maybe this is unpostable because I am uncomfortable. Very. I began this as a vent with the title “unpostable” so I would remember that I wrote it to not post it. Here it is anyway…

I should be dead. I should’ve been dead in my 20’s, but I wasn’t. Now I have SonHerisme to raise so I need to make it through until he is settled into adulthood. Some days I don’t know if I can make it. But time passes and I always do. Then I feel immensely guilty for feeling the way I do because: what am I teaching my son if I value myself so little? I’m not sure that I value myself so little, its more that I do not see my value in this life other than to raise SonHerisme. Most everything else involving me is just pain. Of course, even parenting has its usual pains but it does bring so many more joys for me. I know that I am very fortunate in this regard. SonHerisme just came into the world this joyful way. I literally have nothing else bringing in or reflecting any personal value. I do see value in other things/people, though. Maybe I’m jealous of the dandelions painting the ground and the cicada music? My digestion prevents me from enjoying consuming food – nevermind the food/fat shame in my family. My digestion also prevents any blissful alcohol numbing. I’m too poor for drugs. I’m too stuck to travel or enjoy much beauty beyond my local reaches – which are beautiful of course, but limited.

It’s almost like a Socratic paradox where the more you know, the less you realize you actually know. But instead of knowing, its living. The more I know about living or have lived, the less I’ve actually lived.

Hey now – I am grateful for things. I’ve had journals and journals and journals recording my gratitude attitude. Also pointing out that no matter how dire the circumstances or how deeply I feel the loneliness, grief and pain of being, I always find something to push me through the day. Always. Courage, I suppose, because I clearly see it in some of you, so perhaps I have some as well.

As my brain was sinking into unworthiness the other day (damn you instagram, lovehate you forevah koyc!) on my self scheduled “break” outside on the trampoline (yes, instagram voyeurism whilst trampolining is a thing provided it’s a gentle tramp), MotherHerisme was crying because her ice had melted in her tumbler, SonHerisme was beginning his own meltdown over maths grades and works, plus he was pre-teen belly starving, one of the puppies vomited on the floor, front doorbell rang with another large Amazon package full of potato chips and coffee flavored peanut m&ms for MotherHerisme, breakfast and lunch dishes were sitting in the sink while a clean dishwasher was waiting to be emptied, the nurse was on her way to change MotherHerisme’s bandage(which now falls to me because the home nurse visits have expired again), I tripped over two bags full of soiled adult diapers left in front of the door by MotherHerisme so that I would take them to the trash while dodging her dirty clothes she tried to throw close to the staircase for the laundry room (MotherHerisme moves around as little as humanly possible) and I just needed to go to the bathroom… and on and on and on in case you wanted a snapshot of a typical post-lunch moment in my house of wack-a-doodely doodah.

Anywho – you get it. Minus a screaming baby and the electricity going out… chaos.

I turned around from the bags of soiled diapers and saw mud all over the floor. Scattered in clumps and smears all the way around the kitchen entryway, stopping just where SonHerisme had deposited his riding boots next to his hanging cocoon chair (which must be where he’d finally removed the boots). In that moment, that one tiny moment, I saw him in my mind’s eye, with his determined focused face grabbing onto Dusty’s mane with his left reign hand, pulling his body up to cantor and smiling with all of his everything as they galumphed up the hill together for their first intentional cantor moment (there have been unintentional cantors as well as jumps with other horses). All of the unworthy focus washed out of my body immediately. Thank you, stinky mud (at least, I hope you’re mud). Then my body forcefully reminded me that I truly had to go to the bathroom myself – probably a combo of soiled diapers and mud triggering the everythings. There’s a song I internally sing to my pelvic floor in these moments, in order to coax it into cooperation as I make for the back of the house to the bathroom. Natural birthing – amiright? Pelvic floor, pelvic floor, don’t fail me now, don’t fail me now. Pelvic floor, pelvic floor, you know I love you…. la la la la la It worked. No worries.

Then back to the doing of the things until something else swoops in and knocks my breath away pushing on my reverse heart bruises with the griefs and sadnesses.

And so go my days. Evenings are usually the most difficult for me. I just want to get dinner made, served, cleaned up, dessert the people up, grab tea for myself, shower (ending with freezing cold water natch), go to bed, read and pass out until the next day. Currently reading: A New Earth (again), Seasons of the Soul (again), Midnight Library, Amber Spyglass (again), and When the Apricots Bloom. That’s right – fiction is back!

Most nights I awaken at some point and struggle to return to sleep. Often I’m awakened by my body having some reaction to whatever. My face and pillow will be completely wet, the muscles in my face will be tired from crying in my sleep or something like that. So I know that stress is exiting me at points regardless of my conscious participation.

These days SonHerisme is soccering or tennising in the evenings, so I do get a little moment to walk around the park or watch him having fun with buddies and coaches. He is definitely a team kind of person, thankfully unlike me. I was a swimmer because there is very little noise under water and I love(d) that.

This is a hard share for me because of the things. My entire being pushes for a gentle, calm, peaceful, cozy, giggly, love existence. The physically painful unworthiness and grief moments throughout the day are gut punching paralyzingly difficult. The resets are unpredictably random and welcome reliefs. I have been thinking that at least I am feeling something other than constant shock numbing, which might be a good thing despite the pain. It does feel like my heart is continuously breaking and I will try not to fight it anymore because that truly seems to have been pointless.

How are you?

Love, Ms. Herisme xoxo

btw I am not so buried in my own wacky miasma where I’m rendered unaware of the world grief and its impact on all of us. COVID, racism, Palestine, guns, mental illness, fascist movements, day-to-day life hardships etc. I know I am lucky to have occasional space for my griefs. I think about all of these things outside of myself everyday too and send love out into the universe to soothe and comfort.

today’s MotherHerisme tears are brought to you by having to take a shower and also remembering that her meals work better with her medications when she is on a somewhat regular schedule

(now, as needs must, laughter by watching clips from belly-laugh inducing comedians)

We can do hard things – we are doing them already, so we might as well own that we can – go you, go!

3 thoughts on “Unpostable (a truth share)

  1. Your words touch my heart in so many ways. I am grateful to receive this writing and all of the emotions conjured up with it. Thank you so much for sharing a piece of you šŸ’ž


  2. Pingback: Pig Coup! Pig Coup! | HERISME

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