Thank you to all for your comments on the last post - they were very comforting.
My family held an intimate memorial service for my uncle yesterday, and that was, R tells me, extremely loving and soothing. I am so happy to hear that people could honour him properly. Now that my mother is finished the planning of that service - she was entirely wrapped up in it for three days - I worry about it all coming crashing on her shoulders. We shall see.
I am doing much better than I was. I was completely exhausted and grief-stricken for a couple of days there. Then my friend K arrived from Home City, for a visit. Which is a good thing - I think I needed the distraction it is providing.
So she is here, and we are having a lovely, wine- and food-oriented time. Probably too much wine, and I now kind of feel as if I have to detoxify! But it has been very, very nice.
Sunday, October 07, 2007
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
I found out late this afternoon that my uncle died today. Suddenly, at 58. I wasn't prepared for the way this hit me. And I don’t know what to do with myself but to write a bit about it. There seems nothing else to do. And wish that I weren't here, but was instead there, with people I love. Family, and my own love.
He was my mother’s twin brother. I am worried, in the first instance, about her. When she phoned me, she was not as distraught as I’d have imagined she would be – and I know it hasn’t hit her, a much, much, much deeper grief that she hasn’t even encountered yet. I know this because of the circumstances of her life, of his life. His life always – his whole life – but also, especially, just recently. Just in the last few weeks.
We spent an awful lot of time talking about my uncle when my mother was visiting. She was worried about him. She phoned every day, trying to get hold of him. She checked in with one of their sisters about him every day. His wife had just left him because he was an alcoholic. Full of rage. Emotionally abusive. She had moved out into my other uncle’s house, taking their thirteen-year-old daughter with her.
He was a profoundly damaged man. In some ways, hurtling toward destruction. Nearly died of heart disease a year and half ago, but hadn’t quit the smoking that was killing him. Hadn’t quit the drinking.
But when his wife left him, he tried to turn it around. For these last two weeks, he’d been going to AA meetings every day. Was looking into a residential rehab program. When my mother was here, he phoned once while we were out, and left a soft, forlorn message trying to reassure her that everything was – or would be – alright.
My mother tells me she talked to him for an hour last night. He was sick with worry, apparently, that the family thought he was a monster. She tried to reassure him that nobody thought that.
Today his heart failed. And he died.
So I think of him, trying so hard to remake his life, and the screaming injustice of being stopped so soon. And I think of my mother, his closest sibling, his twin, for goodness sake. A recovered alcoholic herself, who saw through to the core of him – as many of us couldn’t , or wouldn't – and knew, and knew, what a good person he was.
I think of his children - a young girl he was so proud of, and a boy in his twenties, shy and sweet and standing by his father these last couple of weeks. What it feels like to watch a father live the way he has - so wounded - and then to lose him.
I think, too, of the larger family. It is large – my mother is one of seven children – and soso heavy with its own baggage, much of it centering around him. I know that losing their brother hurts. I know it hurts in an especially confusing and acute way because of where he stood in that family. Of where he had stood his whole life. Ever since he was a child.
And I think of my grandmother, losing one of her children. And what that must feel like because they didn’t really speak, she and my uncle. She – and these were her words, or at least an approximation – had never felt connected to him. He lived with that, she’s lived with it. And now he’s gone.
And it’s strange and terrible to feel that you’ve somehow failed someone. By writing them off. That’s what I did, I think. Because he was such a hard man to handle, because his profoundly insecure personality tended to grate. I didn’t take him seriously. And the worst part is that I knew. I knew how damaged he was, and at least some of the reasons why. And I still wouldn’t really, humanly engage with him. That’s selfish, and profoundly wrong. I am sorry for that.
My mother said she was grateful that he’d been released from the pain of his life. She believes he’s in a better place. I can’t say, of course, that I feel he’s anywhere now. I can't make anything of this. No lessons, no consolation, no nothing. Just the injustice of it, for him. Just hurt, for everyone else. And oh, my poor mother.
He was my mother’s twin brother. I am worried, in the first instance, about her. When she phoned me, she was not as distraught as I’d have imagined she would be – and I know it hasn’t hit her, a much, much, much deeper grief that she hasn’t even encountered yet. I know this because of the circumstances of her life, of his life. His life always – his whole life – but also, especially, just recently. Just in the last few weeks.
We spent an awful lot of time talking about my uncle when my mother was visiting. She was worried about him. She phoned every day, trying to get hold of him. She checked in with one of their sisters about him every day. His wife had just left him because he was an alcoholic. Full of rage. Emotionally abusive. She had moved out into my other uncle’s house, taking their thirteen-year-old daughter with her.
He was a profoundly damaged man. In some ways, hurtling toward destruction. Nearly died of heart disease a year and half ago, but hadn’t quit the smoking that was killing him. Hadn’t quit the drinking.
But when his wife left him, he tried to turn it around. For these last two weeks, he’d been going to AA meetings every day. Was looking into a residential rehab program. When my mother was here, he phoned once while we were out, and left a soft, forlorn message trying to reassure her that everything was – or would be – alright.
My mother tells me she talked to him for an hour last night. He was sick with worry, apparently, that the family thought he was a monster. She tried to reassure him that nobody thought that.
Today his heart failed. And he died.
So I think of him, trying so hard to remake his life, and the screaming injustice of being stopped so soon. And I think of my mother, his closest sibling, his twin, for goodness sake. A recovered alcoholic herself, who saw through to the core of him – as many of us couldn’t , or wouldn't – and knew, and knew, what a good person he was.
I think of his children - a young girl he was so proud of, and a boy in his twenties, shy and sweet and standing by his father these last couple of weeks. What it feels like to watch a father live the way he has - so wounded - and then to lose him.
I think, too, of the larger family. It is large – my mother is one of seven children – and soso heavy with its own baggage, much of it centering around him. I know that losing their brother hurts. I know it hurts in an especially confusing and acute way because of where he stood in that family. Of where he had stood his whole life. Ever since he was a child.
And I think of my grandmother, losing one of her children. And what that must feel like because they didn’t really speak, she and my uncle. She – and these were her words, or at least an approximation – had never felt connected to him. He lived with that, she’s lived with it. And now he’s gone.
And it’s strange and terrible to feel that you’ve somehow failed someone. By writing them off. That’s what I did, I think. Because he was such a hard man to handle, because his profoundly insecure personality tended to grate. I didn’t take him seriously. And the worst part is that I knew. I knew how damaged he was, and at least some of the reasons why. And I still wouldn’t really, humanly engage with him. That’s selfish, and profoundly wrong. I am sorry for that.
My mother said she was grateful that he’d been released from the pain of his life. She believes he’s in a better place. I can’t say, of course, that I feel he’s anywhere now. I can't make anything of this. No lessons, no consolation, no nothing. Just the injustice of it, for him. Just hurt, for everyone else. And oh, my poor mother.
The joy of delurking
I must say that I'd love to hear from you if you are a quiet, frequent visitor!
Monday, October 01, 2007
Future, present, past
Do you ever feel as if you spend all your time talking about the work you're going to do in ths future, and never actually doing it?
This is the sense I have right now. Having just finished blabbing for 8000 words about my book project for that huge grant proposal which would see funding starting next spring, I moved on - the very next day - to writing an internal travel grant application for funding for a faraway conference next June. This is one huge-ass travel grant application - the amount of documentation they want for a thousand bucks or less is colossally ridiculous. It's going to be a days-long affair to complete this. I have to talk up my project and its significance yet again. In future terms, hypothetical terms. And then there's the booking I just made yesterday, for my research trip in May. It's all projecting, months and months ahead.
How much time do I spend, by comparison, actually working on the book? Bascially, none. Instead, I'm all about planning for how to execute it in the future.
But what about the present? What about some time to actually grapple with the stuff I'm working on? Hell, what about the past, whence the stuff originated?
This future orientation is frustrating.
This is the sense I have right now. Having just finished blabbing for 8000 words about my book project for that huge grant proposal which would see funding starting next spring, I moved on - the very next day - to writing an internal travel grant application for funding for a faraway conference next June. This is one huge-ass travel grant application - the amount of documentation they want for a thousand bucks or less is colossally ridiculous. It's going to be a days-long affair to complete this. I have to talk up my project and its significance yet again. In future terms, hypothetical terms. And then there's the booking I just made yesterday, for my research trip in May. It's all projecting, months and months ahead.
How much time do I spend, by comparison, actually working on the book? Bascially, none. Instead, I'm all about planning for how to execute it in the future.
But what about the present? What about some time to actually grapple with the stuff I'm working on? Hell, what about the past, whence the stuff originated?
This future orientation is frustrating.
Desperate blogging of lost things
I have seen this trick work so many times, and I beg and beg to the blogosphere that it work this time:
Please come back to me, batch of 19 critical responses from my first-year class. Oh, please.
I receive critical responses from everyone in that class every week, but I have a random grading scheme, so that I separate them into a small "to be graded" file folder and a larger "not graded" folder. I did this sitting in my office on Friday afternoon, and then - or so I thought - put both files in my bag to take home over the weekend. Yesterday I could only find the "not graded" pile and got nervous, but figured I'd be able to find the other one at the office. Not so.
The only thing I can imagine is that it fell out of my bag on the bus home on Friday. But I can't imagine how. Oh god. No.
Please, please, oh ye gods of the blogosphere, please let these things show up!
Update: It occurred to me after I wrote this that it is possible that I put these papers in my purse-ish kind of bag, before I went out for dinner on Friday night - thinking that I might go to a cafe after dinner and do some grading, because my dinner companion said he needed to go home early to work. (He didn't and I had too many drinks and was out too late to do this grading.) But I thought I'd put another batch, from another class, in my bag. We shall see when I get home late this afternoon!
Update #2: Found! They were in that purse. Thank you, blogosphere!
Please come back to me, batch of 19 critical responses from my first-year class. Oh, please.
I receive critical responses from everyone in that class every week, but I have a random grading scheme, so that I separate them into a small "to be graded" file folder and a larger "not graded" folder. I did this sitting in my office on Friday afternoon, and then - or so I thought - put both files in my bag to take home over the weekend. Yesterday I could only find the "not graded" pile and got nervous, but figured I'd be able to find the other one at the office. Not so.
The only thing I can imagine is that it fell out of my bag on the bus home on Friday. But I can't imagine how. Oh god. No.
Please, please, oh ye gods of the blogosphere, please let these things show up!
Update: It occurred to me after I wrote this that it is possible that I put these papers in my purse-ish kind of bag, before I went out for dinner on Friday night - thinking that I might go to a cafe after dinner and do some grading, because my dinner companion said he needed to go home early to work. (He didn't and I had too many drinks and was out too late to do this grading.) But I thought I'd put another batch, from another class, in my bag. We shall see when I get home late this afternoon!
Update #2: Found! They were in that purse. Thank you, blogosphere!
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Exciting long-range planning!
I've just booked myself a self-catering flat in Paris for May! For two weeks! For a research trip. I started looking at apartments this morning and figured that I should get on the booking now, if I actually want to secure one of the less expensive ones, because I know that spring in Paris is going to book up quickly. (Less expensive is important because I probably won't get the SSHRC bucks, and I need to try and make my meagre start-up funds cover as much of this trip as possible.) So I've found a sweet studio in Montmartre, and it is RIDICULOUSLY inexpensive - like, shockingly, for Paris - but also has many, many glowing reviews from previous visitors.
I cannot wait! Even though it's eight months away, it provides me with a lot of light at the end of the tunnel of this year.
I cannot wait! Even though it's eight months away, it provides me with a lot of light at the end of the tunnel of this year.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Friendship gush
I can feel that I'm coming down with something. Noooooo! Not surprising, given how run down I've gotten this week.
You could have had the joy of dealing with an enraged rant from me, earlier today. (Yes, more negativity from Hilaire.) Dudes, you would not BELIEVE the ignorant cows who live in this house and with whom I share my laundry facilities. But you were saved from me unleashing my fury on Blogger, because the phone rang - twice! - bringing me in rapid succession the voices of two good friends from across the country, one in Home City and one in Fun City One Province Over.
And now I just feel happy, and I want to talk instead about friendship.
The second caller was my friend M, whom I've mentioned before, like here and here. Other than GF, he's the person I talk to the most. Tonight he called me because he was feeling lonely. We talked for two and a half hours. And when I hung up, I had such a feeling of contentment and peace. I felt deeply, almost spiritually grateful for him. This man is a gem. More than that, our friendship is a gem. It's certainly rare that, as an adult, you meet someone you know will be in your life for a long, long time. He's one of those, for me. I know this, even though I have only known him for, really, less than 18 months.
My favourite aunt, F, introduced us. (M and I have talked about how she is owed a big thank you from the universe. If we ever manage to be in M's hometown, where my aunt lives, at the same time, we need to take her out for a wine-soaked dinner to thank her - I love wine-soaked dinners with F.) He and I have similar paths, both being academics in the same general field, and we're about a year apart in age. That's not enough to make a friendship, though, of course. But there is an almost uncanny affinity between us on a personal level, and it is only enriched by the academic connections. I think our friendship is so strong because of a deep interest in and respect for each other. Those sound like such dispassionate words, but they're not, not at all. They are the ground of our friendship. I've almost never felt such interest and respect, in either direction; in a way, my friendship with M shows me what those words can really mean.
And, lest that sound all too buttoned up and respectable, let me also say that M is one of the only people I talk about sex with, and that these are fabulous conversations in which we both laugh a lot and think a lot. (In fact, he laughs so loud I always worry about him pissing off his neighbours.) What's better than that combination, laughing and thinking? And that my New Year's Eve last year, spent drinking champagne with him, was one of the more fun ones I've ever had.
It just hit me tonight how really quite precious our friendship is. I had to share it, because it touched me. And I feel full of the love, blogfriends! Awww.....
You could have had the joy of dealing with an enraged rant from me, earlier today. (Yes, more negativity from Hilaire.) Dudes, you would not BELIEVE the ignorant cows who live in this house and with whom I share my laundry facilities. But you were saved from me unleashing my fury on Blogger, because the phone rang - twice! - bringing me in rapid succession the voices of two good friends from across the country, one in Home City and one in Fun City One Province Over.
And now I just feel happy, and I want to talk instead about friendship.
The second caller was my friend M, whom I've mentioned before, like here and here. Other than GF, he's the person I talk to the most. Tonight he called me because he was feeling lonely. We talked for two and a half hours. And when I hung up, I had such a feeling of contentment and peace. I felt deeply, almost spiritually grateful for him. This man is a gem. More than that, our friendship is a gem. It's certainly rare that, as an adult, you meet someone you know will be in your life for a long, long time. He's one of those, for me. I know this, even though I have only known him for, really, less than 18 months.
My favourite aunt, F, introduced us. (M and I have talked about how she is owed a big thank you from the universe. If we ever manage to be in M's hometown, where my aunt lives, at the same time, we need to take her out for a wine-soaked dinner to thank her - I love wine-soaked dinners with F.) He and I have similar paths, both being academics in the same general field, and we're about a year apart in age. That's not enough to make a friendship, though, of course. But there is an almost uncanny affinity between us on a personal level, and it is only enriched by the academic connections. I think our friendship is so strong because of a deep interest in and respect for each other. Those sound like such dispassionate words, but they're not, not at all. They are the ground of our friendship. I've almost never felt such interest and respect, in either direction; in a way, my friendship with M shows me what those words can really mean.
And, lest that sound all too buttoned up and respectable, let me also say that M is one of the only people I talk about sex with, and that these are fabulous conversations in which we both laugh a lot and think a lot. (In fact, he laughs so loud I always worry about him pissing off his neighbours.) What's better than that combination, laughing and thinking? And that my New Year's Eve last year, spent drinking champagne with him, was one of the more fun ones I've ever had.
It just hit me tonight how really quite precious our friendship is. I had to share it, because it touched me. And I feel full of the love, blogfriends! Awww.....
Friday, September 28, 2007
Consequences of fun
My week is sort of over. I had a productive day today - spent all day at the office, working my way steadily through a long to-do list. The most important part of it? I submitted my SSHRC application (well, submitted it for the rounds of my Chair's, my Dean's, and the university's signatures). That puppy nearly killed me. I easily spent 80-100 hours on that thing. I cannot tell you how happy I was to see the end of it. Though it's a little odd to think of 80+ hours spent on it, and me incredibly unlikely to reap anything from that. (Last year's success rate for the New Scholar category was 22% - though it was apparently closer to 50% at my uni, which is something.) Feels like a bit of a futile exercise.
The weekend is going to be a workfest, as all week has been. There were serious consequences to my mother's visit. Although I did some work every day, it wasn't enough. I got so behind that this week was easily the most stressful I've had in years. I did that awful thing, waking up at 5 in the morning - having worked until 11 the night before - because I hadn't finished my prep for the day. It's when I do things like that that I feel like life sucks.
That's fucked up, right? That we -and it's not only me, I know - face the consequences of having fun?? After all, I did in fact do some work every day. And yet that wasn't enough. There's something seriously out of whack here. And next weekend - Thanksgiving - my friend Kim is coming to visit for four days. I won't really be able to work during those four days: Kim is a very organized and efficient lawyer; she is so organized that, thought she works the crazy hours of any lawyer, she is also able to schedule time off and enjoy it with reckless abandon. That's what she'll be doing here next weekend. And all I can think of is the awful consequences of me spending the weekend having fun with her. Again - the consequences of fun. How ridiculous.
(And I fully recognize that I've taken much of this craziness on myself, organizing conference panels and initiatives and doing a SSHRC app without thinking about how they would actually play out in the fall.)
The weekend is going to be a workfest, as all week has been. There were serious consequences to my mother's visit. Although I did some work every day, it wasn't enough. I got so behind that this week was easily the most stressful I've had in years. I did that awful thing, waking up at 5 in the morning - having worked until 11 the night before - because I hadn't finished my prep for the day. It's when I do things like that that I feel like life sucks.
That's fucked up, right? That we -and it's not only me, I know - face the consequences of having fun?? After all, I did in fact do some work every day. And yet that wasn't enough. There's something seriously out of whack here. And next weekend - Thanksgiving - my friend Kim is coming to visit for four days. I won't really be able to work during those four days: Kim is a very organized and efficient lawyer; she is so organized that, thought she works the crazy hours of any lawyer, she is also able to schedule time off and enjoy it with reckless abandon. That's what she'll be doing here next weekend. And all I can think of is the awful consequences of me spending the weekend having fun with her. Again - the consequences of fun. How ridiculous.
(And I fully recognize that I've taken much of this craziness on myself, organizing conference panels and initiatives and doing a SSHRC app without thinking about how they would actually play out in the fall.)
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Books!
Adjunct Whore tagged me for a book meme! How perfect, since I have controversially declared this A Night Off - even in the face of all I have to do - and I am halfway through a bottle of really quite good wine, and sitting around thinking about books strikes me as exactly right...
Total number of books owned: Around 500, I'd guess
Last book bought: Caroline Cox, Seduction
Currently reading: Elsa Schiaparelli, Shocking Life. And the current issue of Bitch.
Five Books that Mean a Lot to You (with a bonus 6th because ya'll are doing it):
1. A Room of One's Own. I used a passage from it during the opening remarks at my dissertation defense, which were actually VERY meaningful to me. I got choked up as I read it. I teach this text and love it, for how it can be both such a product of its moment, and somehow so transcendent of that moment.
2. Simone de Beauvoir, La femme rompue. This collection of stories was the first I read - as a teenager - that described the intimate incorporation of oppression. I can't tell you what an impact that had on me.
3. Walter Benjamin, Illumations/Reflections. Illuminations with an introduction by Hannah Arendt. Adjunct Whore has these on her list. They were crucial for me, too. It marked the beginning of a new - and the most important - phase in my intellectual life to date. And the tragedy of it, of him, I found deeply touching. Arendt's introduction kills me.
4. Jan Truss, Jasmin. This was a young adult novel that I read over and over again. It was the story of a young girl who ran away. It is an incredibly solitary story - she's out there alone in the forest. The descriptions of profound alienation were really powerful to me at that age.
5. Carolyn Burke, Becoming Modern. Her biography of Mina Loy. More than any other text, this one is responsible for where I am now. (Ha - so maybe I can blame it for my unhappiness?)
6. Jeannette Winterson, The Passion. The title says it all. I read it over and over at a point when passion really mattered.
TAGS:
I don't like to pressure anyone, though I would truly like to see the answers to this from all my faithful blogfriends. Tell us about your books!
Total number of books owned: Around 500, I'd guess
Last book bought: Caroline Cox, Seduction
Currently reading: Elsa Schiaparelli, Shocking Life. And the current issue of Bitch.
Five Books that Mean a Lot to You (with a bonus 6th because ya'll are doing it):
1. A Room of One's Own. I used a passage from it during the opening remarks at my dissertation defense, which were actually VERY meaningful to me. I got choked up as I read it. I teach this text and love it, for how it can be both such a product of its moment, and somehow so transcendent of that moment.
2. Simone de Beauvoir, La femme rompue. This collection of stories was the first I read - as a teenager - that described the intimate incorporation of oppression. I can't tell you what an impact that had on me.
3. Walter Benjamin, Illumations/Reflections. Illuminations with an introduction by Hannah Arendt. Adjunct Whore has these on her list. They were crucial for me, too. It marked the beginning of a new - and the most important - phase in my intellectual life to date. And the tragedy of it, of him, I found deeply touching. Arendt's introduction kills me.
4. Jan Truss, Jasmin. This was a young adult novel that I read over and over again. It was the story of a young girl who ran away. It is an incredibly solitary story - she's out there alone in the forest. The descriptions of profound alienation were really powerful to me at that age.
5. Carolyn Burke, Becoming Modern. Her biography of Mina Loy. More than any other text, this one is responsible for where I am now. (Ha - so maybe I can blame it for my unhappiness?)
6. Jeannette Winterson, The Passion. The title says it all. I read it over and over at a point when passion really mattered.
TAGS:
I don't like to pressure anyone, though I would truly like to see the answers to this from all my faithful blogfriends. Tell us about your books!
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Post visit
My mother left late this afternoon. It was a much better visit than I'd have expected. I was able to keep a lid on myself, for the most part. We also had alone time - I couldn't take five days without doing any work, of course, so I had to be doing a bit every day. And she had some work to do on a couple of days, too. But every day we took some little excursion. Some of those excursions were sooooooo beautiful, my god! Seriously, this can be such an enchanted vacation-land. (Not such a nice place to live, as evidenced yet again by a phenomenal display of racist discourse in today's newspaper.)
What was good about the visit was that my mother is so incredibly easy to please. On Saturday morning, for instance, it was yucky and raining. We went to the farmer's market and then to the mall for boring towel- and sock-buying. Back by 12:30, and that was our activity for the day - a market in the rain, and a big, boring mall. But my mother gushed about what a "great day it has been." Not hard to entertain, see??
Of course, it is this over-the-top sunniness that I also find most difficult about my mother. Everything is beautiful - that's her favourite word. Last night we were out at a Japanese restaurant and she was eating her plain old steamed rice with soy sauce, and apparently that was "beautiful." Because everything is. It's just too much muchness, you know? I am actually quite a cynical person, and this kind of relentlessly celebratory attitude always feels to me like a grating over-simplification of it all.
Why so? Isn't happiness nice? Well, the thing is, we can't just be. I can't just be. There is always gushing over me. It feels like a lot of pressure, quite frankly. The other night, for instance, I was sitting there in my armchair, my legs swung over the arms, wearing some variety of pyjama-like clothes. "You look great in that chair," my mother beamed at me. For god's sake - I'm just freaking sitting in a chair in my pyjamas. Just let me be.
So that's the crux of it. I need to just be, and my mother has invested so much in me, her only child, that I chafe.
But anyway, it was a good visit, overall. I'm pleased about that - it felt like a hurdle. My mother is a very, very good and kind and lovely person. I need to remember that.
*
And now my heart feels like it's racing and all I can foresee over the next ten days is unbelievable quantities of work. I worry that I'll make myself sick with the state of stress I feel I'm in. Remind me never, ever to take on this much work at once, again!
What was good about the visit was that my mother is so incredibly easy to please. On Saturday morning, for instance, it was yucky and raining. We went to the farmer's market and then to the mall for boring towel- and sock-buying. Back by 12:30, and that was our activity for the day - a market in the rain, and a big, boring mall. But my mother gushed about what a "great day it has been." Not hard to entertain, see??
Of course, it is this over-the-top sunniness that I also find most difficult about my mother. Everything is beautiful - that's her favourite word. Last night we were out at a Japanese restaurant and she was eating her plain old steamed rice with soy sauce, and apparently that was "beautiful." Because everything is. It's just too much muchness, you know? I am actually quite a cynical person, and this kind of relentlessly celebratory attitude always feels to me like a grating over-simplification of it all.
Why so? Isn't happiness nice? Well, the thing is, we can't just be. I can't just be. There is always gushing over me. It feels like a lot of pressure, quite frankly. The other night, for instance, I was sitting there in my armchair, my legs swung over the arms, wearing some variety of pyjama-like clothes. "You look great in that chair," my mother beamed at me. For god's sake - I'm just freaking sitting in a chair in my pyjamas. Just let me be.
So that's the crux of it. I need to just be, and my mother has invested so much in me, her only child, that I chafe.
But anyway, it was a good visit, overall. I'm pleased about that - it felt like a hurdle. My mother is a very, very good and kind and lovely person. I need to remember that.
*
And now my heart feels like it's racing and all I can foresee over the next ten days is unbelievable quantities of work. I worry that I'll make myself sick with the state of stress I feel I'm in. Remind me never, ever to take on this much work at once, again!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)