Sometimes I must force myself to write. It’s not because the words aren’t brimming and the sentences aren’t composing–it’s because it takes a lot more energy to sit down, type out, and edit the fluid that seeps. There’s nothing that feels like caged words. And trust me, I have many. But turning the key…it sometimes just makes things…worse. It welcomes a stampede. You know what happens during a stampede? Things get crushed. Things get trampled. Things get reshaped in a way you weren’t expecting and maybe don’t like–or maybe you do.
Now, that may all seem a little too metaphorical, and I do not apologize. I enjoy figurative language. I use alliteration whenever possible, and I giggle knowingly each time I do. I hope readers “get it,” but even if they don’t, it doesn’t deter me. I am this way with puns and cheesy jokes too. The one out of ten that gets a good chuckle (yeah, I don’t even need a hearty laugh–though those are truly golden–better than warm chocolate chip cookies) is enough for me.
So, here I am. Fan of language. Fan of construction. And you know what word I chose to use all day? What word my great aunt, teacher of English claims shows a lack of vocabulary? (fragments, did you notice?) FUCK. Yes. There you go. My blog is not G rated. (come on, there’s so much innuendo it’s always been at least PG-13.) So, now I’d say my blog is rated R for RAW. R for RAWR. (R for Raw Naked Katie.)
Anyhow. Fuck is so expressive. It’s explosive. Many people giggle when I say it because I look like a milkmaid (taken directly from someone’s comment about my appearance!), I sound like an elf (or something young and high pitched) and I am generally bubbly and rosey cheeked. (above the waist.)
So on a day like today, my first day back to work from vacation, the first day of work after the last day of one of my direct reports (yes, scarily enough, they let me “supervise” other people–and I’m not terrible at it) the first day that I am now responsible for my job, plus someone else’s job (yeah, like I’ve never been in that situation before)–where was I? OH yes, I have a fuckload of work to do. Because I didn’t have a fuckload before.
Right so–work has me stressed because I want to be perfect and do everything–and I’m responsible for quite a bit–and I want to retain the respect of my employers and fellow employees. (Remember, I really do LOVE my job.) But Vacation Katie of bouncy hair fame has to return to being Workaholic Katie of mangy hair fame. Workaholic Katie says “fuck.” A LOT. Every 5 to ten (sometimes fewer!) words out of my mouth today were/was (damn grammar–thought I was going to say fucking grammar, didn’t you?) fuck.
But, I find myself angry at myself. Fuck. Very angry. And I find myself angry at friends. Double fuck. I hate this. I don’t want to belittle anyone’s feelings. I really don’t. Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck.
Why am I so angry? Maybe because I am weak. Oh, so very weak. Weak. Oh so weak that I turn my back to a seizure. Maybe because I am a hypocrite. Maybe because I keep watching my mom slowly killing herself and I sometimes can’t sleep at night because I see her grey, clammy face and soiled nightshirt when I close my eyes–yet, what do I do to help her? She is a completely different person. She is no longer my mother. Even now, I look at a smiling picture of her with my stepdad, taken in Colorado nine years ago, and I think…that is Mom. That is how I see her. My family has talked at length about “what can we do?” You know what we can do? Nothing. Such is mental illness and dependency. I want to bring my mom the grandchildren she has so longed to love and nurture–but, I fear that will never happen because my mom no longer exists. And then guilt because my thoughts go from the woman who bore me in every way a human being can be borne by another, to a lonely longing. To the desire of the cessation of absolute aloneness in the dead of night or at the end of the day. To write of oneself openly is the greatest narcissistic vulnerability gifted to man and woman.
Or maybe it’s because I know I am running out of time with both surviving grandmothers–one, slipping away from reality mentally and becoming more frail each month, and one half the country away and hating me for being a lousy granddaughter. A granddaughter so caught up in herself and her job that she can’t spare the time to email, write, call, or visit on any regular basis–a granddaughter who feels immense guilt over a mistake not even her own (if you care to know, ask me about my package. ha. see, I can make jokes in any situation.)
Did I mention the father I rarely talk to, and forget to acknowledge on his birthday, anniversary, or any other day of the year? Doesn’t mean I don’t think of him everyday of my 26 going on 27 years.
Maybe it’s because I’m a horrible friend. I deserted 2 of my best friends through hardship. Our paths diverged in the wood…but I should have hacked through the overgrowth and found my way to their trails. I should have been there.
And bills. And my cat. And laundry. And…fuck.
The guilt threatens to collapse me each moment. Each breath.
This is my own personal stampede. Don’t count the elephants out, they run faster than you’d think. And those giraffes have long legs, but they can crush you pretty good too. Meercats too–small and feisty. Big or small…a stampede is a stampede.
The crowd rushes forth and I barely, just barely escape being trampled. I’ve been trampled before. This is why I must tell myself that I can choose to run faster. I can choose to pivot and change course. I can choose to not be consumed.
I still have tremendous hope. I smile, I laugh, and I find joy.
I force myself.
