So, I'm feeling a bit of life fatigue today. More, that is, than usual. Life of late has been filled with trickiness. A bit o' ye olde gong-show. Me stuff. School stuff. Kid stuff. Money stuff. Oh gawd - the money stuff! Out the yin-yang, as they say. Things just keep fucking breaking. Things that I need and have no money to replace. It is... well - it's pretty fucking fatiguing.
And then, the lawyer meeting. My first rendez-vous with the legal aid lawyer who has been appointed to deal with my broke-ass divorce. (That is, I mean, the divorce of yours truly, who is broke-assed). During which I was reminded several times over that I am nearly 38 years old. Thirty eight years old. 38. 38. Thirty-eight. And that I have nothing, absolutely nothing, to show for this on paper. No savings. No safety net. Nada. Zip. Zilch. That if I make one false move, that if something big happens (say, one more big break), I am fucked. Not-able-to-pay-my-rent-and-keep-the-roof-over-my-kids-head kinda fucked. Which is to say, SUPER-holy-baby-jesus-fucked. There is nothing to fall back on. 'Cause you know, I really need those reminders, what with being totally unaware of this fact all by myself. And just in case I needed a little extra anxiety, I was asked quite pointedly, if I was "sure" my decisions were "really in the best interests of my children?" because sometimes, you just really need to be stabbed in the chest with a fork. You know, just to drive that old point home.
And it worked. Consider the point driven home, right beside those four teensy fork-tine wounds in my chest, For the first time since my separation, I was overtaken (and I *do* mean completely overtaken) by the horrifying notion that my decision to go back to school, to follow my passion and be a broke-ass grad student, was totally foolish. Selfish. Borne out of some bizarre sense of 'fairness' in a word that is, in fact, profoundly unfair. So yeah, I stayed home with the kids and helped nurture my partner's career with the eye to a future in which I could also nurture mine. So yeah, the plan was that I'd eventually go back to school and get my PhD- my dream. But plans change. In fact, *I* changed the plans (people really like to remind me of this, as if I wasn't already hyper-aware of my homewrecker status. I get it. I get it. I get it. Fuck - I GET IT! Me = homewrecker. Check). But maybe, just maybe the pricetag for me changing things is that I don't get to do this thing that I want, this thing that I love.
I thought that I was showing my littles that following your heart and following your instincts was the most important thing in the world. More important than stability. More important than money. But I wonder, today, in my lawyer-derived panic, if in fact I have been showing them something else entirely?
I know how fucking lucky I am to even be having this crisis of conscience and of faith. So so many people don't have the incredible luxury of this whole following their dreams business because they are caught up in the game of trying their best to just survive. And so maybe, I just need to quit this whining and get a damn desk job somewhere and forget all this dreaming crap? Maybe that's what being a 'grown-up' is and this is the price I have to pay for making the stupid, stupid decision to be an at-home mom for so long (God, this is a laudable activity, don't get me wrong, but it also puts women in an untenable and really fucked up spot). I am a strident feminist. Damn proud of it. But this kind of decision screws women. It screws them, dear friends. Me, with an MA in Gender Studies, six year resume gap, and no safety net or savings to speak of. Not exactly the poster child for upward mobility or looking out for myself, am I?
I want, so so badly, to think that I am teaching my babes about resilience and survival. I want this dream of mine to be the best path for all of us. I do.
But right now, I'm not exactly sure exactly how much resilience their mama has in the tank. I'm just so tired. Tired of everything being a struggle. Tired of worrying all of time. Tired of being bloody scrappy. Just tired.
I've had so many people tell me this year how strong they think I am. For doing this PhD thing, this mama thing. All the things I do. But I'm not. I'm not strong. So many parts of me just want to give up. So many parts of me grapple with the constantly lurking question: "Alright Pinterics, how much fight have you got left?" And today, today I am really not sure how to answer that question.
I guess it remains to be seen.