Today someone asked me a whole lot of questions about different things. The one that stuck out the most for me was about how I felt about dealing with the situation with my mother, and if I felt like a bad daughter. It didn’t take more than a nano second for me to yell, “HELL NO I don’t feel like I’m being a bad daughter – I think what’s going on is that I’m sick and tired of being treated like one.”

It’s triggering many things, from depression and hurt in general, to bad dreams and weird memories from my childhood… Not that life isn’t difficult for all of us at some point in time, and all the time for some people, but that’s the thing I’m feeling the most. It’s just all so difficult. I told my mother’s doctor just last week I no longer wanted to be her guardian (something I’ve been fighting to be named as for over a year) and that I was willing to lose the land and even my horses at this point if it meant that she was cared for. I feel like I just can’t deal with it anymore.

As far as drinking – I shared a while back that I was concerned about how much I was drinking. Truth be told I’ve been using alcohol as a sort of escape for a long time, just not to this level. I had quit for a while but I just picked it right back up because, well, in the simplest of terms, fuck it. I know it’s not the answer and I know it’s not healthy (at a number of levels) but right now I really just don’t care.

I really don’t care about anything right now… I feel very much like I could hide away and stay gone for a very long time and be perfectly OK with that. I really can’t even find my words today – which is also unusual.

I’m angry. I’m depressed. I’m not well. And honestly, I don’t care. I’m ok with not being ok. And right now I’m ok with drinking myself to death. I don’t care if that sounds selfish to some, or if it’s something others can’t understand. Raw me here. I don’t want to walk in these shoes anymore. I don’t really want to walk at all. And I’m not even writing this under the influence of alcohol. I’m also not writing it for attention. I write. That’s it.

This past week or so has been so crazy. I know – I’ve already written about that more than once. But tonight I want to write about how old I feel, and it’s BECAUSE of not just this past week (while the majority of it is) but of being my mother’s caregiver in general for the past few years.

In itself, caregiving gets old. But the way it makes you FEEL… Argghh! There are days when it doesn’t feel “like a gift to be able to care for one who once cared for you.” There are days that I don’t feel “grateful for the chance to give back.” Pfft. Let’s be real – it’s emotionally nasty. It’s a nasty, dirty, wreck of an emotional job and it SUCKS a LOT, a lot of the time.

That said, I still push on. As of now, as you all know, I don’t have any other choice.

In updates to my lasts posts about my mom, I’ve gone in to check on her and twice found her in the floor since those posts. There have been a couple of other issues that have come up (financial issues), and all she wants to talk about is going to buy a new computer. She doesn’t even have the Internet right now. She has an iPad. I explained this. She doesn’t NEED a computer, she needs to worry about us getting other issues sorted – namely her CARE. It’s just like she doesn’t NEED, nor can she have, her car.

She doesn’t – she can’t, or she refuses to even meet me halfway and try to – live in the reality that, as sad and frustrating and angering and annoying and depressing and ridiculous as it all is, especially for her, her life is not, can not, and will never be again what it used to be. I know that is awful for her…but it’s emotionally exhausting for me, too…

And you can’t ever make that make sense to them. You just can’t. It’s a losing battle to try, so you lie to them. You tell them, “maybe when you heal from this fall.” Then you say, “maybe we should give it just a couple more months.” Then you say, “maybe once we get the car fixed,” even though the car is not even broken. You make shit up. You LIE to your parent, even though as a child you were beaten for such nonsense. Like, BEATEN. With a hickory switch.

The role reversals are hard. They make no sense to my brain some days. Some days, despite the fact that my mother was never in my life like this for me, I want her to be my mother and hug me and tell me it will be OK and say comforting things like, “we’ll get through this,” or, “your daddy would be so proud of how much you’ve done here, and that you’ve worked so hard to get this back to a working farm.” It’ll never happen. It wouldn’t happen even if my mother didn’t have dementia/mental health issues. But as a child, I DO wish it would.

My life exhausts me. I get up early in the mornings, I take care of mama and the horses and chickens and everything. I come home and take care of my kiddo, we do things, whether it’s school or playing outside or whatever. I do housework and yard work at the neighborhood house. Then, after whatever other running around I’ve done all day (bank, post office, etc.), it’s back to the rinky dinky little farm I’m trying to build and mama’s, to either bring her home or to make sure she still IS at home.

By the time I sit down at dark, I feel like a little old lady who can hardly crochet anymore because of her aching, arthritic hands – and I only have slight arthritis/carpal tunnel – when I try to write or type these things out of myself. I feel like a firefighter who has been battling a blaze all day long in the hot summer sun. I feel like a marathon runner who has been training all day. I feel like a doctor who has been running all day long to go from this patient to that, this hospital to that office to this building to that, trying to make sure everyone is being cared for and check to see how they are and what they need and what changes need to be made, etc.

Yet, I’m nothing so achieved as a firefighter or marathon runner or doctor. I’m just little old me, wearing myself down to the core of my sanity and watching it start to spindle apart backward, one twist at a time coming off the spool and piling up in a big ball at my feet. Then I get tangled up in that ball, and start tripping over my own delusions and disillusionment and exhaustion and the anxiety and panic start to build and then the depression grabs on, you know, just for kicks, and I end up sitting in the pile of sanity that I used to have, having a complete come apart.

Does any of this make any sense? I don’t know if it does or not, if you’ve never been in a situation like this or at least somewhat similar to this. But I have a hunch that most of us have felt this way at least once – maybe more than once – just because…well, LIFE.

Life is a gift. Yes, it is. And I am so grateful to be alive. I just wish I felt it. I do, sometimes…but I fear I’m wearing that escape thin, as well. Perhaps I should just dwell on writing about the life I wish to live rather than chasing after one I can’t have right now…and another one I know I never will have (because some things are just not meant to be and not gonna happen…you know?). I’ll keep making music, and sometimes sharing it. I’ll keep playing with photos. I’ll keep hugging my son and my doggos and my gentle giants. Playing with my chickens, and with fire.

I’ll stay on the outskirts of my own chaos for as long as I can before I let it suck me in. I will make no promises on how long that will be.


Good morning… ❤️ I am here at my mother’s now, waiting on the home health nurse to arrive and looking out over the field where in my youth I would surely find myself on a warm winter day like today, doing upkeep and spring gardening preparation with my beloved Mama Kay. What beautiful, cherished memories I have of my home place and of my childhood with my grandmother. Yet, today I find myself in a very different phase of life. As I recollect a childhood passed I realize even more how grateful I am to have been prepared so well for this particular time in my life. 

I am in that phase of life where it’s all about everyone else. I don’t have the time or resources for all the self care fantasies that people (especially women) go on about – bubble baths, manicures, beauty shops (anxiety on fleek in places like that, for me), shopping trips (who can afford that anyway?) – but I take care of myself in the ways I know how, and have available to me, and know are right for me. 

For me, it’s walks in the backyard (or at my mom’s when I’m there), reading a book before sleep, watching space documentaries (or listening) while I clean, taking photos randomly and editing them because I enjoy it so much, ALWAYS listening to and sometimes making music, writing down thoughts in the notepad on my phone (if not a napkin or scrap of paper shoved into my bag) during those waiting moments (in line at the store or over morning coffee). It’s always in nature, and it’s always in self-reflection and self-expression.

You can’t always make time for yourself and you can’t always make yourself a priority. All the self help psycho babble bullshit that puts pressure on people to do that is detrimental. It’s not humanly possible for me, or many people, to be on a daily basis what truly feels to me like being self-indulgent. To be perfectly honest, I don’t CARE about my appearance that much. It does not make me feel better to have fresh hair or nails or perfect makeup or a “style.” My style is just me, as I am. It’s pretty simple – clean self, clean clothes that are comfortable and that I like, a little eye makeup just because it makes me feel awake in the mornings and I really love my eyes… LOL

I’m a simple person. Being a simple person is OK. My self care habits include the things I mentioned above, and I eat fairly clean(ly). I stay hydrated. I take my St. John’s wort and vitamins every day. I wash my hands a lot. I keep my home and the environments I’m in clean. But most importantly, what truly makes me feel better about my life and about myself is that I love. I give hugs to people and I show concern for them – especially my son, and all the animals. I try to smile even when I don’t feel like it or am on a rant somewhere inside myself. 

Loving and caring for and trying to conscientiously be kind to others is the best way for me to love and care for myself. It promotes self-growth and self-love at off the charts levels to simply put others first. How convenient that I’m in that stage of life that daughters and mothers, both of which I am, often face during the mid-life years. It’s a BEAUTIFUL phase of life, even as ugly and dirty and exhausting as the tangible bits of it can be. At least 95% of the time, I feel…privileged to have the opportunity to touch people’s lives and to be a part of making them better or at least more livable than their situations might make them feel. I wish society would stop promoting self indulgence or putting such pressure on people that they only love themselves if they do it a certain way. 

I do get down, and especially in exhaustion I rant and carry on but it’s not from a negative space. It’s from a real space. I wish people would see the beauty in just being who they are and in just loving and helping each other. Anything else – anything more or less than that – is what makes life seem so bad, when really, it’s just…what it is. Not inherently good or evil – just life… Even I, in my darkest moments, know that even when it doesn’t feel or look or seem like it and even when it’s impossible to truly understand, life is a gift – but it’s only a true gift when we share it with those we love. That is what makes any human being’s life worth living. That is the only thing worthy of the pain and heartache and struggle life can be. Just love – any kind. Love, and kindness. I have to muster it from the depths of me some days lately, but I do try, always. Ultimately, I know that it matters. We matter. Please remember that, always… We all matter and we all have something to offer. You – whoever you are, whatever you’re struggling with – are loved…by me…

C.