dictation's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Blather, rinse, repeat. Birthing may be an agony for mothers but let's face it, babies are pushed out without having been warned. Tears stream down their howling bloody faces. It couldn't have been pleasant for any of us. In my case I am absolutely certain I knew that I didn't have the strength to get through life, never mind birth. And that the best thing would be to turn right around from this clinical place where people wear masks that hide their mouths and go back to the...pre-cellular place. Too freaking weird is what I'm sure I was thinking. Live long enough though and you find out that strength is a last minute saviour. Damn tiring - existence is. The older I get the more self-protective I am. I was sure it would be the other way around. Saying how I feel, what I feel - beyond the cynical crap - is like having to endure being naked in front of an impersonal probing medical specialist whose job it is to ensure your well being.
I try to keep my vulnerability under wraps - don't do a very good job of that. I need to share my emotions and yet regret when I do share them. Bitchitude is an easy share. Because it's a tough show. I really want to write somewhere else. And yet feel it's pointless. Because I've done this so many times. Like Chumpchange. Wrote a whole lot of stuff there and felt so ashamed of it. Because I was afraid to be perceived as weak. Certain that someone'd think I need an ass-kicking, not realizing I know how to kick my ass back to being practical, logical. We all flip flop don’t we? I cringe at certain sentimental expression. It's unfair of me but there it is. Every time I ditch a journal, delete it, password it, I'm amputating parts, fleeing from myself. I’ll cite any number of reasons, but really it’s my own fear of revealing too much, of being vulnerable. My childhood and adolescence got chopped in a similar way. The pitiful truth is no chapter is ever over. The past is constantly alive and present. Doesn’t matter if we bring an axe down. Severed limbs remain attached and as phantoms they're harder to control. I've always believed I have to be strong. Not only strong, but fierce. When my mother died I thought this had stopped. But I reverted to type rather quickly. If my sister and brother had lived up to a smidgen of my futile expectations, I might not have. But they persist - even now - in counting on me to be the strong one. I’m sure one day I’ll get the tearful call that dad is very ill. They have always depended on me to make certain rooms safe for them to enter. It may sound melodramatic but it's a stone cold fact that I have always entered those rooms first and by myself. And yet, they're the first to mock me for not taking more risks in my life. I am tired of the role and yet found myself grateful at the end of my mother's illness because if they had showed up and helped out, as I so badly needed them to, I would never have had all those special moments with mom. I resent having to be the strong one though. I want to be able to fall apart sometimes. And yet I won’t allow myself to have “moments” even here. Or anywhere. I miss my mother something awful. I think about her every day. Often when I think of her I start to cry. I try to think of her when I'm home alone, but somehow when I'm out in public - the ordinary every day scenes - my memories of her are more poignant. It's usually late at night that I have the long one way conversations with her. In the morning I wonder what all the fuss was about. Daily, I think of all the things I didn't have a chance to say and I wonder where she is. Yet, I almost never write about her. I don't know how to describe her yet. The whole package. I'm not bitter about my mother anymore. I wrote a lot about her when I felt bitter. Now that I'm not bitter I don't write about her. Because she stirs up weakness, she rattles my otherwise stalwart knees. I find myself wanting again. Here doesn't feel right, doesn’t reflect reality, totality. But no "here" ever has. Every journal has been one-dimensional. I understand now the curse on the narrator in The Golden Notebook who had to have five notebooks to file her experiences. She compartmentalized her life. But people are beautifully disordered - they aren't meant to be sorted and filed. Yet somehow we've (I've?) compartmentalized my expression. And feel this strange obligation to apologize for having these moments, these feelings. I'm afraid of judgements. I'm a harsh judge. You know what this means. I'm screwed. 1:19 a.m. - 01 May 2004 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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