They, the experts that is, say that children crave stability and routine. As a child in a home of ever-shifting circumstances, I never had consistency, stability or routine. My mother, I believe, had good intentions, but she was also a terrible mother in a long list of ways, also she was and is mentally ill, abusive in all ways imaginable and could never follow through with anything.
People who have lived with an alcoholic parent or spouse have a special understanding. They know what it’s like to want to please people, to want to be seen, or forgotten, or both at the same time. They know what it’s like to balance emotionally on the blade of a knife. Is it the angry drunk or the happy one who’ll come home tonight? They know what it’s like to have a fear of what people are thinking about you, what will their next move be? They also know what it’s like to want to please people, to be valued and liked even to the point of feeling uncomfortable just being themselves. I still struggle with these things and more.
I’ve been having a tough time shaking some memories the past few days.
I’ve been thinking about how I really need to create a routine, a schedule that works for me and to stick to it. Growing up mother would get on kicks where she forced us into crazy routines that were restrictive and manipulative, looking back now I consider the possibility that she was trying to get her own self straightened out and needed others with her… I donno, maybe. Trying to offer grace in that. But these routines felt like punishments, a slave to the clock and never felt that they supported life, or built or sharpened one’s self. But today, yesterday, and the day before I’ve been thinking how frustrated I’ve been not having the time to do those things I want to do. We’re all given twenty-four hours. what am I doing with them? Bitching some, yes procrastinating the rest of it, did you know I have a master’s degree in procrastinating?
What if I made room for all of those things I wanted to do? I’d probably do them.
For the last two days, as soon as I’ve gotten home I’ve tidied the home a little, taken a bath, made dinner, read or written, watched a little t.v. and then gone to bed still at a decent time. Also, I’ve woken more rested and earlier than I have in months. That feels good. I want more of that.
What I really want to do is to wake early and hit the gym first thing but B has been sick with bronchitis and as kindly, and respectfully requested that I wait till he’s better so that I don’t disturb his sleep so much. My love asks for little and the way he asked for this was prefaced with acknowledgement of my goal and desire to start new routine. I happily honor his request.
So I wait.
Meanwhile, I can still continue my evening routine which is more of a help, a support than a restriction. After all, it’s mine, I made it and as long as it’s serving me, I should do it.
As I’ve been thinking the past two days about structure and routine I wonder how much better off I’d be if I did get that stability as a kid growing up.
What if we didn’t move so much? what if we weren’t always broke? what if our power/water didn’t get cut off so often? what if all of our pets didn’t die? what if dad wasn’t kicked out of the house so much for mother’s paranoia? what if they didn’t loose their jobs so much? what if we didn’t have to leave in the middle of the night because the neighbor had called child protective services? what if little girls weren’t left with strange men? I could go on for hours with more what if’s that really happened but I don’t think it would be healthy.
What I can do now – is what’s best for me and move on. The past is past. No matter how much of a loss if feels like, or really is, it’s done, it’s over. And as tender as these wounds are best I can do is bind them and keep on.
That I must. For now though, the other potpies are ready to come out of the oven and I want to get through another chapter of my book.
Yesterday I did half an hour of yoga at home, and this morning I weigh a FRUSTRATING 89.9 pounds. Ugh, seriously, how is it that I can eat three meals, snack through the day and still hover around 90 pounds? something’s gotta give. If things don’t take a turn after hitting the gym more regularly I’m going to have to hire a trainer. At least someone would be keeping me accountable.
Thank God tomorrow’s Friday. Really, thank you Divine!
Also, complete transparency here, sometimes I just wish a maternal figure in my life (not my own mother) would hold me in her lap and let me cry, even at twenty-five I feel that I need that. Shit, that’s sad.