Wash over me

I put the kids to bed and fought the tears until I found refuge down here on the couch. Safely out of earshot of the kids, I feel my cheeks flush and the tears start to roll down my cheeks. The lights on the tree blur as I let my sadness come to the surface. I sit here and I cry the tears that have been brewing all evening. I am discouraged by my somber mood.

I walked down the stairs with a familiar heaviness in my chest. I dislike this feeling that has been at bay for so long. I have grown accustomed to feeling in control of my sadness, choosing when to let it wash over me and when to channel it into something hopeful. I know that it is my choice, yet I don’t always feel the strength required to make the better choice.

Why do we choose to be sad? Is there some biology at work sabotaging our good intent? What lens am I looking through today that makes me feel depleted? Why do we feel more resilient some days and others just the opposite? I have asked myself this question many times over the last four years and I find myself sitting here again tonight wondering the same thing.

There are too many variables at work to hold just one accountable for our moods but there must be triggers for each of us. Tonight, I am sad for what my kids have lost…will this ever go away?

Oh Christmas Tree

 

Tree time

 

 

 

 

Re-fuel

I wonder, I question, and I doubt. I find myself having this conversation in my head repeatedly as my patience and energy dwindle. My fresh can-do attitude fades as I look at the circles beneath my eyes in the mirror each morning. I work along side co-workers who comment on how tired I look (ps. telling someone they look tired is the same as telling someone they look like shit) and I wonder if this is all worth it.

I toss around various scenarios in my head wondering which variable would relieve some of the stress I feel each day. I apply my mascara and look back at myself, staring into the freckles in my eyes and I see this exhausted woman staring back at me. I don’t feel young anymore. I don’t feel like the bubbly Vancouver mom I used to be. This single-parent-widowed thing is a tough gig.

My mind flickers back to quick snapshots of family times when things seemed easier. It feels like eons ago, and as though I’m recalling someone else’s life. I search for that recent memory of feeling replenished and well rested but it escapes me. I don’t remember the last time I felt unhurried in my day. As I drive from home to the daycare then work and back again each day in scramble mode, I wonder who else feels like this?

The days feel long and my eyes are heavy as I finish the lunches for the following day (my most dreaded task aside from emptying the dishwasher). I can’t seem to find the 2 minutes it requires to pull over and collect my mail from the mailbox on the corner, or to stop for gas even when the gaslight has been glowing for a day or two. To sacrifice the 6 minutes it takes to fill my car would make me “ultra-late” instead of the usual late so I push it. I test the fuel range setting on my VW as it ticks down to 10kms until empty. I exhale in frustration standing in the cold as I fill my car at $1.13/litre…of course, wishing I had done it the day before.

As I listen to the pump clunking away I catch it’s rhythmic sound. It sounds nice…un-hurried, steady, and not in a rush in the least. I envy the gas pump and it’s simple purpose and patient way. I suddenly realize, this is the first time I’ve stood still for more than 5 minutes all day.