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Dread Version July 26, 2019

Feeling it big time this morning, The Dread like an amorphous pile of bleck, seeping through my edges.

Fridays are supposed to be my writing days, like a solid 2 or 2.5 hours of uninterrupted. I'm trying this instead of writing for a little bit every day. And every time I sit down for a longer sesh, or even think about sitting down for a longer sesh, I'm like quietly freaked out of my mind. The Dread is like, Oh yes, let's party.

Hello, Dread. I guess I'm supposed to invite you in? According to Rumi. You know that poem, The Guest House? I love reading that poem when I'm in a good mood. I'm like fuck yeah, bring on the bad feelings. Come on over, Dread! Here's your tea!

And then when The Dread actually comes a' knockin' I'm like "UGGGGH IT'S YOU AGAIN? BUT I WANT TO FEEL SOMETHING ELSE, WAAAAAHHHH."

Well who the fuck wants to be greeted like that?

I have so many children living inside me still. I think that's why parenting can be so hard. How is my inner five year old supposed to contend with an actual, real-life five year old? Sometimes-- okay let's be honest, almost all the time-- I dread spending long hours with my daughter.

It's not because I don't love her. Duh. Obviously how could I not love her? She's absolutely, entirely, whole-heartedly perfect in herself.

I dread that time because a.) it can be really super boring and I pretty much hate playing, which is one thing, but also and more importantly, b.) I don't trust myself.

I don't trust myself because sometimes I fly off the handle, or act immature, or push her too hard on a swing because I'm trying to release some of the tension, the frustration I feel. When she challenges me. When she pushes the limits. When she doesn't do some version of what I want her to do and I pout. Whens she asks me, again and again, if I'm capable of being the grown up, and I respond with a resounding NO NO NO! STOP REQUIRING MORE OF ME THAN I AM WILLING TO GIVE.

Have you seen a grown-up pout? It's not pretty.

With the writing, too. It demands more of me. It requires me to show up. To be a grown up. To be a grown ass woman. Fuck.

Here's a picture of The Blob (the 1958 version).

Hello, Dread, my crowd of sorrows.


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