Oh this strange desire to write when my core is aching - a need to purge all of the shit that pulsates within, to remove it if I'm lucky - by writing it.
There has been a lot going on. Settling into a new way of life. Often it's good, sometimes really good. But not all the time. Not currently. Grief is still entwined in all that I have, a constant hum of guilt and angst - I could be a teenager.
I'm not. I'm a woman in my late 30's who just played a game of netball and it was the physical incarnate of all the emotional junk I have strapped to my chest.
I was slow, unfit and sweaty. I couldn't pretend that I could manage it. I felt like I was letting the team down, not just as a player but with my shitty attitude. I felt sorry - for myself, for my kids, for all of it.
Only there was no satisfaction in feeling all that. There was no breakthrough, no magical moment where I felt good just for trying, for helping out. There was just sweat and pain and an incapability to do anything with any talent. Words felt hollow. I felt shame. All emotions bought to the surface.
I used to love playing with that team, my friends, people I admire. Now I feel like they will never ask me again because I'm shit and I can't hide my bad attitude. Yet the thought of them not asking fills me with fear.
I was the Debbie Downer tonight, the Negative Nelly. I'm not enjoying my pity party for one. I know I'm supposed to talk about things but why? When all it does is bring others down and share the burden? I'm pretty capable of enduring my own burdens thank you very much.
So I write it. Hoping for the purge, a release, an...unburdening? Hoping that this pity party wraps itself up before my chin hits the ground. I drive home past an ambulance speeding, siren blaring, lights flashing and I think - that's where the real pain is tonight, that is legitimate. Yet still the pity party plays on and I ride the waves and try and keep the music down low so the neighbours can't hear.