I feel like all I write lately is “I’m so busy; I’m so sad; I’m so sorry.”
It’s just that I’m so busy and so sad. I managed to get two college degrees, but never learned to manage my time, workload, or money (that’s a whole other Oprah). The papers, dishes, and laundry are stacked high.
Today I read an article promoting a book about being a busy mom. The comments section was like a punch to the face. “Why did you have so many kids?” “If she’s so busy, where did she find time to write a book?” “Who would take a job with a two-hour commute?”
Although we are inundated with cliches daily, especially at the end of the day, I remember hearing that “It takes the village to raise the child.” Where is the fucking village?
The village is judging you. The village is calling you an asshole. The village is burning down your hut.
I’m not “hating on” internet critics. That doesn’t bother me much. I am an internet critic. The windows of my glass house are covered with grimy hand prints because I’m also a shit housekeeper. I’m still not going to throw stones; although, I have plenty I could throw. Pringles fills her pockets with rocks every day. She’s my budding geologist. And she steals things.
What I hate is how some woman somewhere once made a pretense of “having it together” and everyone believed that she was the person telling the truth, while the rest of us who said “I’m falling apart” were lying. Thus “falling apart,” while it is actually the norm, is thought to be the exception. And not like “You’re so exceptional! Good for you!”
Not like that at all.
I’m terrified to admit that I’m not handling my responsibilities well. What about the women who are doing everything I’m expected to do but don’t have husbands? Or don’t have health insurance? Or don’t have ____________?
Fill in the blank with everything I take for granted that invalidates my complaints. You’re writing another blog post about how hard you have it? Some people don’t even have computers! Or fingers!
Numbing out with ice cream while watching pay television? Must be nice, privileged bitch. Why don’t you CHECK YOUR PRIVILEGE, and then tell me all about your problems?
I hate that admonishment. “Check your privilege.” I always think, “Glasses? Check. Seat belts buckled? Check. Privilege? Check. Okay, let’s go!” What? You said to check my privilege. Like most things English teachers complain about, it’s not the crux of your argument, it’s the wording.
I’m white, female, educated, and I’d be middle class if I hadn’t taken out loans to achieve that third thing. I’m grateful. I’m blessed. I know it. I remember it. But damnit, I’m also feeling like a big fucking failure. And I’m sad. I’m so sad. You know what the worst thing about clinical depression is? The sadness.
I’m sorry. I feel like such a dolt complaining. And I have to wrap this up because I’m super busy.