OK, for about a week I’ve been in a slump.
And kind of down in the dumps.
Try to write, but I get stumped.
With a case of the grumps.
Which leaves me feeling like a big ole lump.
What a chump.
For the last few nights, I have trudged down to that peaceful writing room in the basement so that I can sit in front of the computer and beat myself up for not having anything worth saying, not being able to say it the right way, not being able to…be able. Or just be. At 11 p.m., I clomp back up the stairs and put myself to bed, feeling like I missed my chance.
The feeling of foreboding grows. Because on days when I don’t write, my brain gets mean. It turns on me.
I start to question myself. I conclude that no one gives a shit anyway and if I just slink off to silence it won’t make a rat fart of difference. I slide, in everything.
The internal negative messages ramp up. Constant judging. I’m brushing my teeth and think, “Jeez, when’s the last time you plucked your eyebrows, Sasquatch?” I help Vivi get dressed and think, “I bet other mothers don’t send their kid to school in socks they don’t like.” When Carlos babbles something to me, my mind snarls, “There’s something you’re missing here and if you really loved this child you would fix it and he would talk just like every other kid in his class.” I leave 15 minutes late–of course, because I’m a lazy slob. My car makes a funny sound and that’s my fault, too. I’m being too honest right now and that’s probably a mistake, right?
After I drop Carlos off at his school (where he cries and doesn’t want me to go but I do anyway–I need to be a heartless mother so I can get to work late and mess up more things there, son!) I sit in the car waiting for a gap in the traffic. A woman walks by with a cute turquoise purse. She waves and gives me a bright smile but my first thought is, “It’s the wrong season for that color purse. It’s still winter…for two more days.”
Judging judging judging. I instantly feel guilty for judging someone else so I bring the verdict down on myself. “Or MAYBE she likes the color and it makes her happy and she gives herself permission to be delighted because she’s not as fucking rule-bound as you are!”
And I burst into tears.
(I sure do cry a lot in my car. It’s like the only place I have privacy some times. Is that wrong, too? Probably.)
That’s when I finally say something to the voice in my head that has been hounding me all morning: “Shut it. That’s my friend Ashley that you’re talking about and you’re not allowed to talk to her that way.”
The shit I say to myself about myself on a daily basis–would I EVER let someone else talk like that to a friend?
So I’m going to be nice to my friend Ashley today. I’m going to tell her that she’s doing tough things but she is tougher. I’m going to tell her that she matters. That she is allowed to be whatever she is this day, this minute, this life. She’s OK and I’m proud of her.