Good morning. 👋 Welcome to this morning’s ramble, which has brought me to the deep, sudden and unexpected realization that in my “oversharing,” I’m not crazy or weird at all. I’ve let certain people almost covince me that I am at different times in my life, and there’s always been a sort of overshadowing insecurity in me about that, off and on. This morning I feel as though, well, I’m not crazy at all. I’m just unafraid to express myself (and pretty good at it, too)…
Last night, I ended up watching “The Monster Calls” with my son, who couldn’t sleep. You wouldn’t think a movie like that would help him sleep (spoiler alert, the mother dies of cancer), but after watching it and cuddling close and having a good cry together, he slept just fine.
I, on the other hand, have been awake most of the night and wondering what I did to deserve such an amazing kid to help me through my own troubles. This morning (as of 4:33, when I’m writing this), I still feel physically horrible (that hole in stomach, you know) and fairly anxious (because I wasn’t expecting the graphic cancer/death ptsd triggers in that movie), but I also feel so happy and grateful deep within. That boy. I just love him so…
After a brief nap I can’t sleep again, so I just keep alternating between watching him sleep and typing away on my laptop, banging out my frustrations and fears and pain into the same, now monotonous and annoying, adjectives and analogies. I suppose it stems from being so bored with what my eyes and my mind keep seeing that I decided to imagine my laptop as this classic Smith-Corona (thumbnail photo) instead of the 8-year-old MacBook that it is.
Oh, the memories… Even down to the color, it’s just like the Smith-Corona my mother wouldn’t let me touch as a child despite my desperation to caress and become one with it. I literally felt like it was a sin to touch that typewriter and that I’d go to hell if I did (thanks again for the ridiculous, guilt inducing religious undertones to EVERYTHING in life, Ma). I think that typewriter is what made me aware that I wanted to write in the first place, and that my oversharing now is some strange, delayed rebellion to that feeling from childhood.
Hashtag psychology, you know?
I was always obsessed with that typewriter. If a child can covet, that’s what I was feeling. Then, when I was 13, my mother sold the damned thing for $40 in an estate sale after my grandmother died. When I asked why, she explained that she just didn’t want it anymore. So why couldn’t I touch it if she didn’t really love it? And, since she knew how much I loved it, why couldn’t I have had it?
The ridiculous truth is, I’m still sad about that… Anyway, now if only I could get my insomnia/malnutrition induced delusion to include the clickety-clack and the ding…
Ramble over… Hope y’all have a lovely, inspired day out there in the world. Make it count. All the love to you.