Each day I live I am consumed in a cyclical battle of ideas and confusion, mixed feelings and tides of strength vs weariness. It becomes more and more difficult to deal with daily. Some days I feel as if the sea of inner beasts has retreated into a cavern far below my consciousness. Other days I feel as if it was only dormant to regain full strength in order to bombard me once again.
     I wake up most days and feel as though I have to coach myself out of my bed. I know what awaits me and that there is no relief from it in sight. I know that it will be this way for a very long time and that it’s my own decisions that brought me here. When I wake from my bed my frist day’s duty is to clean. The moment I’m up, whether it’s butts, toilets, floors or sippy cups I know that as soon as my face lifts from my pillow there are tasks immediately waiting for me. Meanwhile the whining and droning of complaints and ungrateful attitudes is much like the buzzing of very loud flies all around my head. When my consciousness returns to me from a night’s slumber I wish not to awaken. I wish not to step out from my bed. I only wish to return to slumber.
     As the day wears on I complete the same tasks as I completed yesterday, and the day before and the day before. As I complete them with much resistance from my youngest children I know that the only purpose I’m completing this task is for the purpose of whatever it is I’m cleaning or tending to to be used again and inevitably for me to clean again. I resent it. Every action, every way that the members of my household live day to day is maintained by one person. Me.
     Through all of this, I’m expected by society and sometimes by my mate to look decent. He doesn’t say it and I know he would never, but as a woman it’s implied that we are to be beautiful, graceful, ever smiling, dainty and full of love and patience. But that’s not me. I don’t feel beautiful. I certainly don’t feel as patient as I appear to be. Sometimes I think I could just throttle someone to death. I know he doesn’t say it but my husband finds my job trivial compared to “man’s work”. I can see it by his actions. This I feel hammering away at my composure as I chase a naked child to be diapered and try to prepare a meal or clean a floor.
     I’m expected to want to be intimate. A regular ball of hormones. After such a day of pointless noise and pointless existence I should be willing and ready to hop into bed on a magical ride of love making. This is the expectation of women. After being used to the point of dullness, we are expected to renew with vibrance and lustre and a brilliant attitude. But every day I feel more and more used up and pointless.
     I was given many abilities. The ability to sing with boisterous and full vocals. I was given the ability to create beautiful works of art. I was given the ability to compose music by ear on almost any instrument. I was also given the inability to see well enough to transport myself anywhere alone. Even on a bus or plane I am not able to travel alone. Being alone pretty much all the time and taking care of children I don’t leave my home often. Nor am I in control of anything other than the maintenance of my home. I feel like a child. Like a maid. Like a servant.
     Pointless is what I feel. Of course I love my children. I don’t wish to leave them behind. But my liife means nothing. Feels like nothing. I try to blog, vlog, vine, youtube, whatever I can to put my voice in the world…. but just like those around me, nobody is interested in hearing it. It’s all pointless. And when I die, some day for whatever reason, my life won’t be remembered by anyone but my children. My talents unheard and forgotten by even them. Why, if I will die and be received back into the earth, was I ever born of it to begin with?

Thanks For Reading!



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