I often sit with the weight of my own life. Not in some profound meditation of healing; nah, I stagger under it, the panicked part of myself scrambling to drag the screaming kicking soul back into the confines of what has become my normal.
Lol. I sound so whack. But being swallowed up in responsibility when everything inside me wants to run and never be seen again until Jesus sweeps me up is a real urge I wrestle against ever day I wake up.
I wasn’t made for this, as everybody who knew me before I became this person can attest; and yet I have contorted myself to fit a mold I swore I’d never even bother fooling with. I blinked and when my vision adjusted again, I had things I had to do, ways I had to be in order to not leap over the edge. I am a shapeshifter tired now, exhausted of holding this shape until my duty is done.
I wish I had the guts to pick up and go, kids and all. Just travel the world and live however we live. We are talented and crafty, sharp problem solvers. I’d be so happy to not have to be my mother for my own children. To be my whole self: to write and paint and move from cultural moment to international intrigue. To sing in this band, learn this sound, create those lyrics.
Live like the hobo hippie that reigns in my soul.
But I know I cannot. My children have barely made it through the small moves we’ve made. They aren’t made to be that free, and they’ve suffered enough from their father’s regional wanderlust. They want the same school. Same friends. Same church. Same cousins. Routines. And me? I hate this place, this deadness in my heart of doing the same gotdamb thing every day for essentially 12 years just in different cities. I gag. It is so boring and miserable. We–he and I–have silently agreed to stay in this space of Mayberry, Bogue Chitto with shopping, for their sakes. They need it and my job is to provide for them the things they need to thrive.
And yet. The moment I spoke the words, my skin began to ripple with anxiety as my dreams turned to dust before my eyes. I am getting old, and I have not lived a life I chose. I started to, but here I am a slave to other people’s needs as my knees and back and uterus give out.
I fear no man; not death or demons or growing old. I fear God alone–and dying before I have lived. I want to leave nothing in the bag. I want to greet God empty handed. And I am struggling with this fear that my life is passing me by.