I’m standing inside of myself for the first time in long – and I am scared.
It started with a simple request. My husband asked me to paint a board with blackboard paint so that he could use it for planning and of course, I never like things easy. The board had been left behind by the previous owners and had some writing and a grid on it. I looked at it for a while and asked… “So, what do you want the design to be.”
I knew that he didn’t have anything in mind – he just wanted it black, but I sat down with my phone and started looking for design ideas. As soon as we put our little 1 year old in bed I put on old clothes, started sectioning off the bits with masking tape and switched on some music.
I hadn’t spent any time by myself doing something that freed my mind…allowing it to wander around my unused thoughts. For the last two plus weeks I’d been spending as little time thinking as possible. I’d been drowning the hours I didn’t spend on cooking or cleaning or childcare or relationship maintenance in mindless binge watching.
I have learnt early on that I can be just as efficient at quenching my feelings as I was at indulging them. My head started to thaw out of it’s slumber, drifting towards old memories, missing friends I hadn’t seen in a while. I got up from my contemplative painting and got out an old organiser I started making last year. I had spent a lot of time decorating it but lost steam. I sat down, changing to an old favourite playlist from a different time and started work.
Before I knew it everyone had gone to bed. I was sitting in the dark livingroom staring out at the windy night feeling utterly alone and anxious.
I want to lose control like the wind outside, blowing everything around without fear of consequence. Mourning what I lost like I wasn’t afraid of offending anyone. Crying like I did when they put me on the operating table and it hit home that our baby was really dead.
I cried every day about that lost child. While putting teabags in cups, while putting on shoes, before falling asleep, every time I got a “We’re so sorry” text until a day went by that I didn’t cry. That day I told myself a bedtime story that she was never real and believed it.
As everyone sleeps and the wind rages on my behalf the songs flit past happier memories. Who was I again when I used to listen to this all the time? Where was I when I heard this the first time? In an old Ford Meteora in a worse time than now, but tinted with nostalgia. The music obeys it’s beat, but the light that breaks between the trees bounce across the ceiling and bring me back as I lay alone on my back in the dark.