issue #5: the things i don't post on instagram
what if we said the things we keep to ourselves?
For the past nine weeks, I’ve been unable to write. My head and heart are filled with emotions and anxieties, spilling over, threatening to overtake my very existence. Usually, when this happens, I write.
Most days, words are all I have. They fill text messages and DMs and cute lil captions for photos, eagerly searching for humans on the other end to connect with. They create many new pages in my notes app with scenes for fiction projects, lists upon lists of one-liners and quotes, and what can only be described as pretty bad poetry. Rarely do these ever get polished into something worthy of consumption by another person, but most days, it doesn’t matter.
Most days, the words are there and I’m happy to have found them.
This time, there are no words. These days, there’s nothing.
Texts and DMs go unanswered, pages and pages remain unwritten. I scrape the depths of my insides, searching for a notion, a spark, a light, somewhere. Day after day, the blinking cursor strengthens its hold on me and nothing finds its way out. Each day, I lose. Each loss cuts deeper and deeper until I’ve spiralized myself into a soggy mess posing as a functioning human.
Is it just me? Am I an island of struggle and chaos floating on my own? I check in with my group texts and everyone’s “fine.” I’m not fine, I know that.
Are we all really fine or are we leaving things unsaid? Can I not find the words or do I just not want to say them?
Admitting to struggle often opens you up to things that no one wants: pity, platitudes. Well-meaning choruses of well-meaning refrains like “you’re doing great!” and “you got this!” These days, whenever someone tells me I got this, I want to yell back, “I DON’T THOUGH! CAN’T YOU SEE THAT?!”
I don’t though. What would that do? If it’s awkward sitting with your own discomfort, it’s even more awkward sitting with someone else’s.
But what would I say if no one was listening? This.
I’m lonely. The homesickness comes in waves and sometimes it feels like drowning.
I wonder constantly if I’m cut out for this life, this football life, because it so often requires me to be so many of the things I’m inevitably not—outgoing and flexible and good at socializing with unlimited amounts of energy and resilience and determination.
Moving has been hard and I miss my house, the comfort of knowing my routine and my people, and my place in it all. I hate the uneasiness of being new, the anxiety of figuring things out, and the rejection that comes along with meeting people. It’s hard to feel settled when I spend so much time by myself.
The mental load of motherhood is overwhelming. What’s more overwhelming is my relentless need to pursue something outside of it, for my desperate desire to be defined as something other than “mom.” At least once a day I scold myself for not being content in my motherhood. Why can I not be happy just doing the one hugely important thing?
Even in motherhood, I can’t keep up with everything. The laundry is overflowing and it’ll take hours to fold and put away and I just don’t want to. I resent that I have to. There are a few boxes left to unpack from our move back in April. The front closet has turned into a dumping ground and the kids have wreaked havoc on the office I spent so much time organizing. My half-unpacked suitcase from our trip to Alaska in July still sits open in our closet. It feels like I’ll never catch up.
My house will never look like the ones on Pinterest. There are too many books, too many plastic toys, too much kids’-artwork-used-as-decor to even come close to the carefully curated living rooms on the ‘gram. And yet, I still long for my home to be refined like that because I equate it with being a measured and mature adult. I don’t feel like either of those.
I wish I was more for my kids. They are amazing and wild in a great way and I struggle to keep up, to provide them with exactly what they need to become the best versions of themselves. They deserve someone better, someone more suited for them. Being silly doesn’t come naturally to me. I’m not big on board games. I don’t always laugh at their jokes. I’m a natural caretaker and even then I’m exhausted, worn down by the constant need to keep them fed and clothed and clean, to provide them with experiences and life skills so they grow to be responsible and respectable citizens.
I pack lunches and dig through clothes, drop them off and pick them up, haul them from one sports practice to another, always remember to pack snacks and water and extra clothes, impeccably time out every minute of every day so there is time for meals and rest and play and all the things they need and I struggle every moment doing so. It doesn’t come easy. I’ve always wanted to be a mother and what does it say about me when it’s so, so hard?
I lament continually on all the things I’ve left to do, the words that haven’t yet been written, the faraway goals that seem to come easily to everyone but me. The frustration burns inside of me, fueled by thoughts that I am wasting time, standing still, falling behind—countless hours through each day spent rushing and shushing and giving to others with not much room left for me. I let that consume me too often. I sulk and I steam.
I have deep flaws and a tendency towards self-destruction. I fall to comparison daily. Others’ big breaks and fast growth and lovely homes and perfectly outfitted kids get under my skin much more than they should. I’m guilty of using likes as an indicator of how good my words are. I’m guilty of comparing Ws & Ls, both literally & figuratively. I’m guilty of letting my mind slip into a vortex of others’ opinions when all feels lost.
And I miss my friends. I miss my friends so much that it hurts. I long for the comfort of their embrace, to fall into each other’s familiarity the way we did when we were 12 or 15 or 22 or 29 or 32 or 35. I miss the way they make me feel more like myself than anything else in the world. These days, I don’t know how to say this to them.
These days, I don’t know how to say anything at all.
I can’t remember the last time I let myself fall asleep without Netflix so that I’m not alone with my thoughts even for a minute. Because what would it feel like to sit with discomfort and heartache, to fully wallow in it, knowing that nothing is very explicitly “wrong.” That feels self-indulgent so I hush up and watch Friday Night Lights again and don’t say anything, anything at all.
These days, that’s all I can muster. Anything more feels too hard, too much like failing. I’m no stranger to failure but these days, I stand in a ring with it and it beats the crap out of me when I let it. And I always let it.
These days, I don’t want to say that. But today, I am.
I write these letters about motherhood as personhood because I hope these thoughts are in some way not only my own. When I put these out, it makes me feel a little less alone in this life and I hope it does the same for you. If you like this letter, you can forward it to a friend, share it on social, or leave a comment to tell me what you think. Thanks for being here. I appreciate you.
so relatable. If I had a highlighter, I'd mark up the whole middle section (mental load, motherhood) and write in the margins: yes--this!
I think the title says it all… ❤️ Those square and frames hold a creative connection to friends, family, and even strangers but not what’s deep in on our hearts and minds.