I think I’m in a funk.
I feel rebellious.
And there is a little bit in the rebellion that I like and am afraid to lose. But it’s like this rebellion wants to be let loose to live, and I’m afraid because I don’t know what the rebellion is against.
Does rebellion have to be against something?
Or maybe it can be for something?
I’m not sure right now. All I do is watch the feeling rise. I see it, smell it, hear it. I sense it.
I feel like a baby exploring it. Putting it in my mouth and seeing what happens.
Will this rebellion get me in trouble? Will it hurt me? Is it going to be taken away? Is it mine?
What do I do with this?
Oh, “Feel it,” you say?
Feeling rebellion rise inside of you when you are a married mother of a teenager and baby is interesting stuff.
I think I was about to enter into my “teens” when I had my baby almost 9 months ago. I didn’t think I was going to ever have another child. I always wanted to have another child all those 12 years before I became pregnant again, but I didn’t think it would actually come to be.
And then, there I was, baby-making.
Sometimes, even though it’s heading toward a year postpartum I still look at this Being that’s been created and wonder how in the world she is in my house, with me…and….she’s got me in her…or she’s in me…or….well, definitely we are related…and by blood!
How did this happen?
This weekend I started to feel a new bond with her. I had some of those moments where I thought and felt, “Wow, this baby is my daughter!” It was exciting and gave me a big rush. “Wow, I really have another daughter. There’s this baby in my arms and I inexplicably love her.”
I started to get excited about the years to come. About being “Mom.”
Yes, I am capable of this. “Yes, yes, yes,” I assure myself.
Down every line of writing it feels like there are 10 or more stories I could really tell behind it. So much to open up, but then I know it unfolds, unwinds, and like a scene from one of those movies where the book is opened and the story becomes multi-dimensional, so goes the story of this motherhood.
I would need weeks and weeks to tell this story. How long would it take? How much time would I have to take off from my daily duties to get it told?
I sit here and my advanced crawler climbs to pull up on the chair I am sitting in.
“Not now.” That’s what I’m always telling myself. “No, not now.”
I’m not sure when. Of anything in the world I would ever have or do for myself it would be to get the stories out. I know it seems repetitive and boring on the day-to-day basis of this blog, but there’s a lot of content buried deep.
The bits that get written about are the crumbling pieces on a mound that reaches up like a mountain. I’m hopeful that in reality it’s not like a landfill that’s gotten covered up. But in a way, I’m afraid maybe my stories are a little like that. At least, that’s how they’ve been treated by me. It’s like I grab every piece I can these days and write about it, no matter what it is, just so it doesn’t get added to the pile. Even if it really is trash, lol. I figure I can discard it later if it’s nothing.
I guess those buried stories have found some safety in the garbage heap. And now that the holes in my earth have been filled and dirt has covered them I’m a little uneasy about digging down, even though there are things still breathing in there.
Should I let them die? Should they decompose where they are? Didn’t I never really need them though?
I see this little girl-me sitting on top of this covered landfill now, crying, because her whole life is buried in there. And to the whole world it’s just trash.
And the world I’m speaking of has been created by the other parts of herself (myself) that have gone on to exist without history.
They (I) want it this way. They’re (I’m) afraid to find out they’re (I’m) made up of garbage.
Well, I just don’t know. I really just don’t know. If I don’t die first I think there might be an uprising. And maybe this is the rebellion I’m feeling.
It’s this internal war, this push and shove between who I am and who I am afraid of–myself.
Something has brought me to this place…I don’t know exactly what it is.
I don’t know. I just know that I’m here.
I’m rebelliously here.
And I haven’t been able to make it stop…at least not for now.