If words would write themselves,
and poems were to flit freely
a home they would find
here and now-
yet I sit,
sitting with a blank page.
("homage to writer's block")
Watching "When Harry Met Sally," and thinking of how to neatly and precisely sum up my last few weeks. How do you jam "what the fuckity fuck mcfuckerson??" into a blog post and make it sound... publicly appeasing? You can't and you won't-
We buried my Grandma. Well, we didn't bury her- she was cremated and placed into a nice little urn which was placed into a little door in a wall of the National Presbyterian Church. 86 years full of impressive accomplishments, and your body can fit neatly into a 12 in x 12 in cupboard while a room full of your loved ones quietly cry next to each other. All I want is to rewind 10 years to when my Grandmother still had her wits about her, and give her one last hug, ask her for one last piece of advice, listen to her call me "Chickadee" one more time.
Needless to say, I've been having serious reservations about my life in the past two weeks at work- "Is this what I want in my life?" I find myself silently asking over and over, but no answer seems to come forth in my mind. So, I try a new angle: "What do I want in life?" and it's the same, shitty silence as before- with a splash of "didn't you want to be a Journalist? do you remember how to be you?" I feel like I'm hitting my head against a wall over and over and over and over. Every time I apply for a job in Communications, silence. Every time someone asks me if Rob and I will get married, silence. Truth is, I've become the person I've generally tried to avoid my whole life: a person without an idea, a goal, or a truth.
This week, the phones went out at work, followed by the power, then the power again, then the phones again, and then the security system kicked followed by all of the fire doors slamming shut one morning. This on top of a packed schedule where I had to beg midwives to come in for extra hours only to end up having some clients deliver and some very tired midwives not understand why they were coming in for extra hours when there were blank spots on the schedule. Also, when did my name start having a question mark at the end of it? That should have been in the job description. My new name, starting January 1, 2013, will be: "HeyCait?" I need a fucking drink, but I'm a diet and alcohol is no good for your metabolism so I'm doing some "Bedtime Blend" by Twinnings that's accompanied by the lovely tastes of honey, ginger, cinnamon, and lemon juice.
Yes, I should be thankful that I have a job. A lot of people don't have a job. I keep telling myself that, but like some kind of shoddy magic: it still doesn't work. Also, I am so sick of that as the "shut the fuck up" for the past 4 years. Yes, the economy fucking sucks. Yes, a lot of people don't have jobs. That doesn't mean I have to feel guilty for hating my job. I wasn't picky when I got into healthcare. I was trying to survive as an adult in a shitty economy with very minimal professional experience. I did a lot of things I didn't like, the I still don't like- but it pays my fucking bills and it still fucking sucks. So you're "at least you have a job"s can go suck a tailpipe.
I have a little rage built up. I'm sorry. This is why I haven't been blogging- I've been coping on this end. Coping with grief, coping with the fact that I feel like a complete and utter failure. Coping and trying to just move on with my life. Problem is: I just feel so damn stuck in the mud.