There is nothing less dignified, less admirable, less ridiculously self-indulgent than an adult throwing a tantrum. And yet I am on the verge of throwing one. I feel the tension coiling in my chest. Sense the pressure mounting and the tears moving upwards in a ball of woe, remaining lodged somewhere in the vacinity of my heart and coming no further because I am willing it not to. Of course I would love to give it all free reign. Just press the inner release button and send all of that mess spewing upwards and outwards at the world. Time and experience tell me that it would feel good. Really good. But time and experience also tell me that it wouldn't last. And that ancient companions Shame and Embarrassment always follow swiftly on the tail of such violent releases.
Sigh.
This is all the cumulative result of a long affair between me and this house. I just don't want to do this anymore. This relationship has grown stale. I was told it would, but refused to accept it as truth. The running commentary in my head is picking up the pace. Becoming more frenzied and less coherent. More panicked while far less willing to listen to reason:
Don't make me get up this morning. Don't make me cram my kids into our digusting car, filled with takeout debree and used baby wipes. Don't make me drive for 30 minutes to our perpetually UNFINISHED house only to make hard decisions that I no longer have the heart to make. Don't make me drive back and forth, back and forth, between here and somewhere collecting building materials I have never heard of from nice men who have seen my face three times already today and who find me no more competent with each return visit. Don't make me have to cook dinner when I get home from a day of this. A dinner I can't even stomach. Don't make me try and be civil, let alone loving and Christ-like to my family and friends when I just want to yell at them and swipe at them with nasty remarks. Don't make me try and rest when all I do is lie in bed tossing and turning all night because of the baby growing within me, or the unpleasant thoughts growing within me aswell. And please snuff out this conviction in my breast. The one that tells me that I MUST do all of these things. That I must do them with grace, and be a good wife and mother at the same time. This tenacious conviction makes things so much harder. . .
Who am I even talking to? God? Myself? Aidan? Who have I decided is making me do anything? Why have I decided to script this is a highjacking at gunpoint?
It's because I like to play the victim. To mentally lie down and curl up into the fetal position when things get too hard, rather than, as someone I know so often puts it; "suckin' it up, sunshine." Rather than clothing myself in integrity, smiling and enduring unto the end, I reduce myself to a whiny weakling, snivelling about my circumstances. I despise this trait and yet find myself retreating into it far too comfortably lately. And the internal fist-shaking is just an extra chink in the cop-out chain. It is directed at all of the above: God. Myself. My loved ones. And it takes up residence in my thought life simply because blame is just too darn easy.
Phew. I feel like I just frisked my head. Give it up. What else have you got in there? Hand it over. Let's have a look see? Leave it to "pen and paper" to reflect the content of your head back into your eyes. I've looked at it now. So have you. It's not pretty. Time to buck up. Stand up. Suck it up . . . sunshine.
