Strange Days

Being an adult is hard.

Being an adult and writer is infinitely harder.

It’s impossible for me to find space in which to write.  At work, I’m focused on work.  As soon as I get home, I have three children and three pets clamoring for my attention.  It’s not until later that I get time to gather my thoughts in silence.

Then it strikes- the disease of motherhood.  Is there something I should be doing right now?  Guilt over possibly leaving something undone makes me into a nervous wreck.  I putter around, seemingly unable to settle on one activity.

On nights when I might have the motivation to write, I come home, put the kids to bed, and-.  Just sit there.

Most nights my brain is so exhausted that I can’t get an intelligible sentence out, much less a few mumbled replies.  Sometimes I’m physically fatigued as well, which just compounds the problem.

I know all the solutions- “get up earlier” (I already get up at five am and go to bed at 9 pm so I can get my eight hours of sleep.  If I don’t get my eight hours of sleep, I’m a zombie); “look for five free minutes” (do you honestly think I can settle my anxiety-riddled, ADD brain in five minutes?); “ask for alone time” (I can ask, but then I get the guilt trips and the sighing and I can’t get anything accomplished because I’m worried I’m failing as a mother/wife- which I believe is their dastardly plan).

So I’m in writer limbo, people.  I’m either blocked because of my creative constipation or I’m thwarted by life’s practical jokes.  They aren’t funny, by the way.

And I realize that I’m whining, but sometimes you’ve got to get it out.  It’s either this or I run away and join the circus.  And I don’t think I’d look good in a beard.


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