Boring is a word that I don’t remember using since I was about 12, maybe 11. My dad used to gleefully tell me how I was acting ‘so eleven’ which is what I remember most about that year so I probably was bored then. Since then though, and now, my life has been chaotic.

In my mind, and out of my mouth, anyone who knows me is well aware of these patterns I’m sure. I constantly am spewing the desires I have for a ‘stable’ or ‘secure’ life with ‘routine’ and ‘predictability’ however I’ve never experienced any of this!! I tell myself that ‘as soon as I/we get through this, things will be normal‘ though it doesn’t happen, even I wonder if I really want it? I think I do, but if I look at all that I do, do I really want that?

Maybe I do want that, consciously but unconsciously I have ‘programs‘ (as my Klemmer trained husband calls them) that are against this, and insist on keeping the chaos rampant in my life. I haven’t been through that program, maybe I will someday and then I’ll understand, at this point I don’t though. I am too busy chaotically living my life of chaos trying to make it calm down enough to learn what this word ‘relax’ means, because right now I don’t know.

My biggest fear is that my daughters will only know me as this high strung multi-tasking fake “normal wanter” who can’t seem to figure out what the words normal or calm really mean. It’s clear that my family, dysfunctionally raised from an established military upbringing thinks I’m nuts, or have such unrealized potential.

For me the concept of normal is about as foreign as this flying spaghetti monster I hear about.

For me sending my children away so I can go repetitively do the same thing over and over and over again sounds like pure insanity, I don’t understand the appeal. I haven’t been able to get a job anyway though so it’s not like that is a real option.

What I really want, is for my life, to make sense. Just a little bit of sense. Right now everything is a mess, I feel like an interruption to the world around me. My daughters watch me feverishly accomplish nothing spending my time online, while I explain that I’m trying to make money to make things better though nothing happens to support this.

I agree enthusiastically when people tell me I should write about my experiences, my experiences being sent away as a child to survival camp, running away from boarding school, MS, 9/11, stroke, and the abusive relationship that created my beautiful little girl and that I left behind etc. etc. but have I written? I have written a little bit, here and there but enough for a book? No. Do I know how to get started? I know I need to write, but I don’t know what comes after that. Do I try to take care of myself even? Yes, though I don’t think I’m doing a very good job, I’m getting medical treatment to feel better but all of that is leading to piles of bills that just remind me I’m broke. Then I start working, or writing, and then my daughter cries, or wants to be picked up, to drink mommy milk, go outside, or eat some food.

And it feels like I’ve failed, either at the working and writing by attending to their needs, or at mothering by spending time writing or working.

Balance is another word I need to become more familiar with. Maybe after I meet, my balanced self, I will be able to introduce her to my little beautiful girls who deserve so much more in a mom. I know she is in here somewhere.