It’s a funny thing, leading day after day, drawn forward and backward by panic.
Will I get A, B, C and X done? Will I fail as a mom today? Will my daughter go to bed with a sweaty neck and sticky hands, and her teeth brushed as minimally as possible? Will I have spoken to everyone I treasure, and those I don’t, yet? Will I sleep enough? Did I eat too much? Did I gorge myself? How bloated and saggy-eyed will I be in the morning?
This is my everyday.
Waking up is equated with a master to do list that stems from remembering to brush Isobel’s teeth and feed her breakfast – even though she’s rarely for eating upon waking and her breath is nearly always bad – to the more humbling: be kind but firm both when denying the third song of the bedtime routine and the handout to the bum on the corner. Wish everyone a happy day with a smile on my face, even if it isn’t one.
Every morning I struggle from slumber, aware that I’m not good enough for the monumental list of things I feel I need to get better at, and every night I return to bed, feeling no larger a person, and often times smaller.
Then came the self-imposed exile from all things Internet.
That wasn’t a good control. Why? Because I had constant stress – as a result of my work load and overdue assignments – coursing through my veins at a volume way too high to get a buzz from. It was stifling, at the least.
This weekend, I didn’t have that. This weekend was a control in this study of Zoeyjane 101. On Friday, I blogged about removing myself from the Internet for the evening and then Saturday came, and then today, and I just continued.
I’ll be completely honest. I felt free.
I’ve never stopped much to consider before how much I’ve chained myself to this laptop, finding a way between and during each task to talk to people, check emails, read blog posts, examine who was being witty on Twitter and trying to jump in on the party. Putting work and Isobel’s nonsensical conversations, chores and personal time on the back-burner, so that I could sit in one position for what has been, at times, eight hours straight.
It was another measure of success, maybe, if I could cook dinner and carry out conversations with people who seemed to like hearing from me in some medium. The problem of course comes when you’re actively participating in something (kind of) rooted in narcissism and you’re getting a high off of it.
Yes, I get a high off of people. From you.
Like any substance or behaviour that addictive personalities like myself race toward, it becomes compulsive. It becomes a priority, even. It soon becomes a beast that you need to feed.
Soon, I was tweeting not to get high, but to feel normal.
This weekend, I stepped away. I still read some blog posts, but I didn’t speak much, if at all, online. There weren’t three IM conversations taking place while four different Twitter threads were being updated. I didn’t make sure to blog because if I didn’t, what? You might forget I existed?
Maybe you will have. Maybe I will have gotten that much more boring, when I’m not hyped up on social media.
Maybe, just maybe, the friends and contacts and peers I’ve made, will still find me interesting, even though I’ve not attempted to constantly remind them of my existence this weekend.
At this very moment – and I wonder how long this might last – I’m okay, either way. Because this weekend?
I cleaned when I needed to, I cooked delicious meals for my family, I started to read a book that I can’t put down, took two baths, I have shining hair, and I went outside without makeup on without feeling as if I were a leper. This weekend, I danced and hopped and thrashed to bad music with Isobel while her dad watched from his vantage point on the floor and laughed at our glee.
These past two days?
I could kind of get to like, in the every day sense.
Even with the constant chattering from Isobel, the silence has been awesomely peaceful. And I find myself content and actually, for once, a little recharged.
