Sometimes

I feel useless

But then I remember that if I didn’t clean the bathroom, then nobody would.

The grime would slowly accumulate and the damp unlaundered towels would begin to smell mildewy. The rugs would collect hair, mysterious crud, and toddler pee.

Or maybe someone would wash them. I don’t know.

And I still feel useless.

I wonder at my purpose.

I wonder why I’m so dramatic.

I wonder what more I could want.

I wonder if anything could ever be enough.

I wonder why I don’t feel good enough.

I want to be good enough.

I want to be enough for my family.

I want to be enough for me.

I know I want to write, but doubt anyone wants to read my words.

And yet, I write anyways because I’ve always had too much to say.

I doubt myself each step of the way, despite my suppressed (narcissistic?) belief that I have something special to say.

When the pain comes, it is a message.

It is a sign that something’s not quite right.

It is a sign that I need to write.

I have a heavy heart tonight and tears just behind my eyes, but can’t put my finger on why.

It feels like it’s just… everything.

Life? Love? Fear? Hormones? Sleep deprivation?

I want to blame my husband. I want to blame politics. Maybe my friends? My parents? My children? Maybe the alignment of the stars. Maybe I need a new religion.

But at the bottom of the well, I am sitting alone.

Where I am now is my choice. It always has been.

The way I spend my days is my choice. It always has been.