So, this is it. The way I live in 2014. I get out of bed, I feed an orphaned lamb, Lambie, a rescued calf, Lashes, whose mother’s udder just collapsed on her (we missed her on the cull last season, such a sweet old girl) and my almost-three-year-old gelding, Louis. I get on the treadmill and walk/run, shower, dress quickly. Then I gather my youngest, who at almost 16 is of course pretty damn independent, gets her own meals, including packing her own lunch, and off we go. I drop her at the bus stop, 10km from our home, and continue on to the city where I attend university.
Except for Wednesdays. Wednesdays I head in the opposite direction, and drive to my work.
This is the routine. I auto-pilot a lot of this – as I guess many people do – but I never was an auto-pilot kind of girl. I had adventures! I never re-traced the same steps if I could help it. I would find a different way to do something, to relieve boredom, to make it new. It might only be a small tweak, even listening to a different genre of music whilst working at a task. So this routine is … I don’t know, just grinding?
But, we are now in the teaching recess, and I am all over the place, but nowhere, all at the same time. I need to get a review done, so I got started this morning, and got about a third of the word count tip-tapped out. Then I took a break, made a cuppa, and did some more reading. Think I might scrap most of this morning’s drivel and pretty much start over.
Then I think, hmmm, my treadmill of a life these days means I have no material for sharing on my blog, and I need this. I am kinda addicted to the word, written word on these forums. I have known about this addiction for probably about three years, the last three years of my life. Even though I didn’t blog myself until just a few months ago, I read, I commented, I vented. I have no one. This is it. So I am drawn to check it all out, when I know I need to one day find a real life again. One day, this needs to be in the past. But I have no idea anymore if I will ever have a real life again. I mean, ostensibly, I have a real life. I have three kids, a job, am at uni trying to finish some terribly unfinished business. But none of that means a whole heap to me. I don’t live with conviction any more. I just dawdle along, humming some weird-ass tune to myself, trying to keep the monsters at bay. I mean, what the hell did I used to do? Before I invited Leanne back into our lives, before he decided to waterblast my mind? I used to have good real life friends, I enjoyed life, instead of just going through the motions. I played with my kids, I used to be funny! I used to have an appreciation for humanity, and think that mostly we were a pretty good bunch. Yeah, there were always plenty of arseholes, but if you lived well, and kept a bit of an eye out, you should be able to avoid the big catastrophes. To be fair, I know that was kidding myself. I watch mothers lose their beautiful children to car crashes, to stupid, growing up accidents. I see husbands lose beloved wives to terrible illness. I see new parents struggling to cope with a baby who is battling to even survive. And that is just the privileged West! What about “real suffering” (as I like to label it.) What about those in genuine famine, bloody war zones, political prisoners? So, instead of building myself up, as I fully intend, I end up feeling really … selfish? For being so scarred by a man and a woman I know/knew having some pretty average sex from time to time, and texting each other when they felt lonely. I mean, who even cares?
And why does it bloody well hurt so much, still?