Of course, I don't have a lot of time to write this but I gotta get it out. The way I feel right now is chock full of wet cement. Like someone *beepbeepbeep* backed up one of those brightly colored spinning cement mixer trucks and poured the entire load down my throat. Every crevice expanded a little to accept the overflow, and I am now full to capacity.
Why? Hard to say.
*I love spending time with my brother. The circumstances of what can only be described as our warlike, hellish childhood affected us differently. Sometimes, like yesterday, he shuts down so quickly, so violently, I have to check to make sure my toes weren't severed when the gate dropped. I am denied admission and it breaks my heart a little more each and every time it happens.
*We finally emptied the boxes in the garage onto the new bookshelves. When I got to a big box of my art books, we found the damage. Termites? Mice? Mold? Hard to tell but there were bore holes and crumbled boxes and ravaged books everywhere. I felt personally assaulted. Before having Rio I wandered upon Art History and fell immediately and wildly in love. I haven't had the time to pursue it in the least little bit since I naively signed up for the consuming job of parenthood. To see the books destroyed, literally turned to dust ... made me feel like *I* am disappearing. Little by little, holes chewed through, complete destruction in small but irrevocably lost locations.
*I am still not doing well with having no income. No control of the amount of money available to me at any moment. I've gone from 100% autonomy to, I can't describe it. Bear is awesome about never asking what I do with the money he gives me, but he still gives it to me. If I work I miss out on raising Rio. It's not like I could work fulltime ... so what would be the real benefit of parttime? And that lead me to think, "Hell. It's really not SO long. I'm in the home stretch of this incredibly tough, vitally important first 3 years. How lucky I could spend every day with her." I really do feel lucky. And old. I'll be about 45, 46 going 'back to work'. Fuck.
*On a happy note, I have an idea that is great. I am making myself do something every day toward making it happen. Or at least knowing that if it doesn't happen, I tried.
And now, it's time for laundry, breakfast, vacuuming, my reality. Usually, I'm thrilled with what I'm doing. The first few days of this week were just back to back 24 hour hits of 'where did I go?'.