Eh. A yucky mood today. Maybe it’s because I still haven’t caught up on sleep since the move. Maybe it’s because I haven’t been engaging in all of the positive adult interaction that a caregiver of children needs to feel sane. Maybe I just miss my tiny meditation room that I had at my old house the last three years…my cocoon room, my womb room. I would close the door, turn on my little space heater, drop a few drops of beautiful essential oils in the diffuser, open up my journal, and write in peace. And warmth. Now I’m in the thoroughfare of the house, it’s drafty, I feel displaced, and my inner child is having a tantrum. What, she says, What happened to my room? Why was my room taken away? This is not fair! Why did you move me to a place where I can’t have my own space? Not fair, not fair, not fair! Yep. Inner child. Tantrum.
And then when my actual kids have tantrums, it’s like everyone is joining in, even the cat, joining in this fiesta of temper and reactivity. I need a vacation to a quiet place all by myself. And about ten deep tissue massages to smooth away the knots that have stubbornly refused to leave my body since the move.
There is guilt for complaining. Guilt because in comparison to many, my tale of woe is a joke. I have food, shelter, a family that loves me. There is no threat of bombs keeping me cowering indoors with my children, hoping that we’ll survive another day. I have a job that I absolutely love. I have a computer and fingers that type words. I have no right to complain. And yet…
And yet, these feeling of disappointment, of unrest, of grief are real. They are as real as my journal holding the words I managed to find to describe them. Guilt is just another reason to stay stuck in this place of sorrow. I think I need to let myself feel what I’m feeling, and maybe at some point I can move on.
Taking a breath now. Hoping to write a poem that will help me make sense of all of this.