I can’t get away from the ((screaming)) in my head.
I thought I could do this. I thought I could take back some of the time I spend on the computer blogging, use it to focus on getting back into a routine in my housekeeping, thereby finding more time to focus on my personal writing. I am a creature of habit. I’m at my best when I’m on some kind of a schedule. I like to wake up early at approximately the same time everyday–whether it be during the week or on the weekends–drink the first of eight cups of coffee in the pot, and know exactly what needs to be done and do it. I did before. I had a routine for years. Should be simple to go back to, right? Then why isn’t it? I now remember why I stopped. Why blogging became the way I started my day and at times consumed it. It was because writing was the only thing I found that would stop the screaming.
I know most of you women know exactly what I’m talking about. You’re forced day in and day out to work a job you don’t get paid for that seems to have no benefits. You’re forced to walk around in circles all day and look at the same four walls. The routine you have is no less tedious then working on an assembly line. When it’s all said and done at the end of yet another day, after you’ve dusted and polished, washed and folded, dried and put away, vacuumed and fluffed, it all falls a part, no one notices anything has been done, you climb the stairs weary, and ask yourself why you’re still doing it. You’re the last one to get a pat on the back, the last one to make a decision about what kind of pizza to order, the last one to buy a new pair of shoes…always the last. You begin to wonder what it would be like to be first. You begin to dream. You begin to blog the pain away and the screaming subsides…well, for a little while anyway.
You know the screaming I’m talking about. It’s that thing that’s happening when you’re forcing yourself to listen to your husband drone on about another shitty day on his job. It’s the crazies that’s going on when your kids are whining about needing this or that because so and so has it, or wanting to go here and there because they claim they never get to go anywhere. It’s that mad little woman running around inside of your head stamping her feet, pulling out handfuls of her hair, and begging you to open your mouth so she can be heard. She begs and pleads with you to please stand up for yourself; to tell your husband to shut the fuck up and that you should be so lucky to be making so damn much money everyday, and ask him how he would like it if he had to go to work at a job where he wasn’t appreciated, had to kiss his bosses ass everyday, and walk out of there without a paycheck at the end of the week. She pounds on the inner walls of your skull demanding that you slap the shit out of those ungrateful kids of yours, and whine “Boo-fucking-hoo, how would you like to be me, go nowhere, and do absolutely nothing, and listen to me cry in my freaking cheerios?” She does this, but still you say little, you nod your head a lot, you find yourself staring off into space when you shouldn’t be, and sometimes…every once in a while…you’re able to silence her as she sympathizes while you cry. When that’s not possible though, you cast this pain through your words onto the brightly lit screen of your pc, press enter, send it off into space, and hope someone can hear your cries.
Today I’ve had such a day. Tonight hasn’t been any better. The word Divorce is being kicked back and forth like a hacky sack. No compromise is in sight. I’m tired and feel no fight left in me. I want out, but am wandering around in the dark looking for a door, and can’t find one without a flashlight to guide me. I have no resources. I feel completely at his mercy. I pray the heavens suddenly open and rain down on me with currency so I can buy me a new life. I want to get in my car and drive away with the wind in my face through the opened window, and the reflection of the prison I now call home in my rear-view mirror. I want…. In the meantime I create it on paper, because words can make anything seem real.