Tired. Like, twelve-hour-day tired. I usually get two things when I’m like this: I get teasy and I get deep - which means I’m currently either a) no fun, or b) no fun. Great.
The thing is I can’t help wallowing in thoughts. Like, have I made an identity for myself out of being useful? Does everyone do that? What would that mean when you’re old? Is it okay to just sit there and be loved? Do people in their last chapters feel like that? And is that really enough? And by the way, what happens if I hide these fluffy slippers?
The ‘useful’ thought’s a good one. At work they call it value. Do I add value? If yes, carry on. Really though I want to belong, I’m yearning for it, and the world has taught me that to do that, I have to add value, I must earn a place at the table.
I want to be useful at home too. What I mean is that really, I want to solve all of Sammy’s problems. I do. I want to sweep in and make her happy, relaxed, well-fed, looked-after, creative and free, not even so I can bask in the glory of having fixed everything! I want to do all of that for her. What if I can’t? Well I can’t, actually. But what if I can’t do any of it? Would I be alright?
She won’t find it funny if I hide her slippers. It will go dangerously wrong rather than broadly hilarious. I know this, even when I’m tired. It’s just that there’s not enough battery left to power the filter.
I suppose it’s a sort of middle-aged life lesson. How will I learn how to feel loved? Not for what I do, not for songs or words or talks or writing, not for hard work or even turning up, but just simply for being. How am I going to rewire my brain to think like that?
Well, I tell you one thing: I’m going to need more power to that filter, that’s for sure.
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