Tears are streaming down my face like a river. My chest is full of tears and I need to let them out but I don’t think there is enough time left on the planet for me to release them all.
If I feel all the way, I’ll die of overwhelm. I’m so tired of being scared. It is exhausting me. I’m so tired of fighting. . Please. Please. I have my arms open.
GIVE TO ME. PLEASE. I need. And want. And fucking deserve, yes I do. No more than many, no less, I just. Do.
I took my daughter to see a Star is Born tonight and I thought about Electric L-Word Man, my favourite lover of all time, of just this year, and how I miss him and I thought about my scattered energy. I thought about Marry the Night and Ryan Avery. Lady Gaga wrote Marry the Night the night she decided to put all her eggs in one basket. When she decided to give her voice every thing she had. And Ryan Avery, a speaking colleague, used that song to inspire himself when he decided to put everything he had into winning the world championship of public speaking.
I thought about my ambition. My fucking VOICE. How much I want to speak to the world. How much I want my story told because it covers SO much ground and touches so many different kinds of people. Because I know it will bring healing and understanding. Because of the depth of my hurt and the need of my heart. Because I want to show my daughter that she fucking CAN. I want to pull her out of her shit. Or show her HOW so she can.
I am so lonely. I feel like the only person on earth most of the time. When Electric L-Word Man saw me, when he loved me, it was magical. It breathed life into me. I am so afraid I will never have that kind of magic again. Can I live without that kind of magic? I am living that way right now but I am dragging my ass.
There is magic everywhere but I have not felt it in me for a while. I have felt dead and afraid. I have felt like I have been scrapping for my life. Just to keep my head above water. Watching my daughter fight. And fear. And cry. And cut her beautiful body. Not knowing what to do. Too proud to ask for a lifeline for myself. Ready to drown. I can’t. I don’t want to. I need breath in me again. I need to breathe into myself. I am not sure how to do that. I am not sure what that looks like or if it’s even enough to keep me alive. Or if I even want to live without magic and breath.
She is. She is trying to figure out what SHE wants. I wonder if she knows. Do I know? What does my girl want? What do I want? If I could wave a wand, what would happen?
Tonight she said to me “You have to take all your mistakes and all your fuck ups mom and jamble them together into one big ball of energy and explode it into the world. Explode it into positivity.” She has always had this crazy fucking wisdom. “I can’t even believe I have a mom like you.” She said. She knows what a fuck up I am. But does she understand how close to the edge we are?
Feed them. Feed the people. We all need to be fed. Lovingly, sweetly fed. We are fucking starving. I am starving. Can I feed the people while I am starving? If I learn how to channel the love so it is just constantly flowing through me I can feed the people. Can I feed me? I have to feed me. I am 50 years old and it is becoming abundantly clear that nobody can feed me but me. And I am still not sure how. And I am afraid of starving. Of literally starving. I have to stop thinking about this money from the house. This giant chunk of change that is really not even that big. And will fall away quickly if I do not use it wisely. If I even get it.
Bring me the people Creator. Bring me the people who will guide me. Who will take my arm in love and guide me. Will help me love myself. Will help me love is a verb myself. It’s bigger than me, I know. I just have to do this thing. This thing that I came here for. Please let me do this. Let me speak. Let me tell this story. Let me show my girl how to harness herself and take care of herself and find her some family in this world. Bring her some people Creator, please. And I’m ok to go. I’m ok. Just let me do this thing. Please. And take care of my girl. Please.
My broken heart. It is still broken that he won’t love me. Love as a verb me. It can’t be anymore that I am not enough. It can’t always be that. It doesn’t make sense that it is always that. It doesn’t make mathematical sense. Other people have their own not enough. Even people like him. I thought, I hoped, that we could love each other whole. That’s stupid, isn’t it? I just wish I didn’t have to be so lonely.
I can’t believe I’ve been heartbroken for 50 fucking years.
My own family is such a terrible joke. The English stiff upper lip that makes saying “I love you” impossible. The distance. The coolness. The take care of your fucking self-ness. We have taught Meaghan that you have to find your own family. Make your own. How long can one family talk about the weather? Apparently a long fucking time.
Who do I have? My girl is mine, but not my friend, my charge.
My ex husband is sad. So fucking sad. His fearful choices. His embrace of the solidity of the church. I get it. I get the desperate grasping for solidity when everything is a fragile fucking honeycomb crumbling in your fingers.
I made those mistakes too. I made those choices because I was so fucking sad and lonely and afraid. Like I feel right now. So I have to be careful I don’t make the same fucking mistakes.
It is all out of my hands right now. I don’t know what to do if that money doesn’t come. We can’t lose our home. We can’t.
When is the last time you felt inspired?