Two Weeks
It’s two weeks now. I switched to writing the book for a bit, but I have been writing. I have been sleeping. It has been easier. I can’t even believe that I have slept through the night for 2 weeks. I had one or two short sleeps in there, both after evenings where I allowed myself to have red wine. Sadly, red wine is not my friend in the sleep department. I don’t miss it though, and can enjoy it on a weekend afternoon while I knit, or earlier in the evening on occasion. It is not the end of the world. Sleeping so well is so amazing.
Knitting. I began a class a little over a week ago. I knew as soon as I began casting on that I am a knitter. I could feel it, like a comfort from a previous life. Something I had been missing without knowing. I don’t feel afraid of it. I think I am a wimp when it comes to mastering a craft. I get discouraged and quit. I wish I didn’t. I don’t like that about myself. But it’s true. I don’t feel like I stick with things until I master them, other than professionally. I end up just okay at lots of things. I can play guitar, but not well. I can crochet, but never broke through the skills required for more than a simple scarf or blanket. I have some talents artistically, but never focus enough on them to improve beyond the basic amount of natural talent. It leaves me frustrated because I crave those types of outlets, but feel frustrated with my abilities.
When I was a child, I used to want to perfect things. I would work on skills until I felt I had them down. I abandoned that level of effort around high school because I felt pressured to perform. It was a form of teenage rebellion to get a B or even an A-. Honing talents became a pressure rather than an endeavour for personal fulfillment. I want to get that back. I want to get back to the satisfaction of working on something until I am happy with it. I miss that personal satisfaction. I miss feeling proud of what I have accomplished, creatively.
The book is a good endeavour for that. It is intimidating. I keep thinking I can’t do it. How will I ever tell such a complicated story? How do I get the reader to connect with the parts of my mom that built my loyalty? I don’t even understand it all. I am hoping it will help me to find my way through it. To accept myself for it. To forgive myself, and forgive her. Forgive my dad. I actually think I have forgiven my dad. There is some relief there. I wish I could see him and have him in my life. I miss him a lot. I am partway to forgiving myself. I don’t think I have truly found forgiveness for my mom, which I don’t understand because I don’t think she was in control of so much of her behaviour. If she could stop it, she would have. It doesn’t make any sense to me that she wouldn’t have. There is something to that mystery for me, the answer to which could unlock a different level of healing for me. Why couldn’t she stop? I wish someone could pull up an image of her brain and show me proof that she couldn’t access empathy for me the way she could for others. That she couldn’t maintain that pleasant demeanour she had on the phone to a friend once she hung up and was speaking with me. I want to see the proof. I want someone to help it to make sense to me. I still don’t understand, even though I understand she is ill. I don’t understand why she is so firmly wired to hurt me.
These Thursdays off are amazing now that I am sleeping. They are finally what I needed them for. They are restorative. They are time to write. Time to just be. I had been coming to the point where depression and anxiety were making it hard to enjoy the things I love in life. I didn’t want to sit with my coffee in the morning and enjoy the sunrise. I didn’t want to put music on. I didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts. I often felt my thoughts were too dull and low to write them down. I could never have spent the day in a coffee shop with my thoughts and a page. There was no vibrancy to my words. I felt despondent. I am so grateful to be climbing my way out.
Knitting. I began a class a little over a week ago. I knew as soon as I began casting on that I am a knitter. I could feel it, like a comfort from a previous life. Something I had been missing without knowing. I don’t feel afraid of it. I think I am a wimp when it comes to mastering a craft. I get discouraged and quit. I wish I didn’t. I don’t like that about myself. But it’s true. I don’t feel like I stick with things until I master them, other than professionally. I end up just okay at lots of things. I can play guitar, but not well. I can crochet, but never broke through the skills required for more than a simple scarf or blanket. I have some talents artistically, but never focus enough on them to improve beyond the basic amount of natural talent. It leaves me frustrated because I crave those types of outlets, but feel frustrated with my abilities.
When I was a child, I used to want to perfect things. I would work on skills until I felt I had them down. I abandoned that level of effort around high school because I felt pressured to perform. It was a form of teenage rebellion to get a B or even an A-. Honing talents became a pressure rather than an endeavour for personal fulfillment. I want to get that back. I want to get back to the satisfaction of working on something until I am happy with it. I miss that personal satisfaction. I miss feeling proud of what I have accomplished, creatively.
The book is a good endeavour for that. It is intimidating. I keep thinking I can’t do it. How will I ever tell such a complicated story? How do I get the reader to connect with the parts of my mom that built my loyalty? I don’t even understand it all. I am hoping it will help me to find my way through it. To accept myself for it. To forgive myself, and forgive her. Forgive my dad. I actually think I have forgiven my dad. There is some relief there. I wish I could see him and have him in my life. I miss him a lot. I am partway to forgiving myself. I don’t think I have truly found forgiveness for my mom, which I don’t understand because I don’t think she was in control of so much of her behaviour. If she could stop it, she would have. It doesn’t make any sense to me that she wouldn’t have. There is something to that mystery for me, the answer to which could unlock a different level of healing for me. Why couldn’t she stop? I wish someone could pull up an image of her brain and show me proof that she couldn’t access empathy for me the way she could for others. That she couldn’t maintain that pleasant demeanour she had on the phone to a friend once she hung up and was speaking with me. I want to see the proof. I want someone to help it to make sense to me. I still don’t understand, even though I understand she is ill. I don’t understand why she is so firmly wired to hurt me.
These Thursdays off are amazing now that I am sleeping. They are finally what I needed them for. They are restorative. They are time to write. Time to just be. I had been coming to the point where depression and anxiety were making it hard to enjoy the things I love in life. I didn’t want to sit with my coffee in the morning and enjoy the sunrise. I didn’t want to put music on. I didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts. I often felt my thoughts were too dull and low to write them down. I could never have spent the day in a coffee shop with my thoughts and a page. There was no vibrancy to my words. I felt despondent. I am so grateful to be climbing my way out.
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