Better Intentions

I have been at this precise place so many times--regret that I didn't live up to the expectations I set for myself. Disappointment that I am always seemingly starting over from the same place, beginning again at the beginning.

This year is already a wash.

I had plans. I had intentions. I had goals. Yet here I am, with nothing to show for any of those lofty hopes and dreams. I am standing in the same sad spot and always for the same reason: My inability to put my needs above those of the members of my family.

Which family member? It never really matters. With the addition of a child, it would seem that I have an acceptable reason for never accomplishing much of anything, except that isn't the case. My daughter inspires my need to actually push myself to be more than just another frustrated, reluctant housewife turned obscure, undiscovered blogger. And as she has grown from sweet baby to this unruly, insane Toddlersaurus, I should have endless material from her daily antics. According to my blog journal (the notebook I carry to jot down blogging ideas) I could perpetually write about busy black motherhood and possibly *finally* garner a following.

Yes, I have a blog journal. It was part of the elaborate plan that has yet to materialize thanks to that other unyielding demand that I am always trying to manage. That other familial obligation that I am trying desperately not to resent, because that would be selfish. And we all know that whenever I focus any attention to myself, for whatever reason...

Yet, this did not begin with the choice to focus on myself insomuch as it feels like it began with the intention to do so. My intention to devote more time to writing and live vlogging and starting a podcast and a few other projects...all on the back burner because at the beginning of the year, a new chapter began in my long-running family drama. Which has left me bitter and angry and depressed. And eating all the time. Or sleeping. Or intentionally missing certain social engagements. Or doing drastic shit like chopping off my hair and dyeing it different colors including platinum blonde. Or not sleeping.

(I actually plan to write about this situation in a more direct form, but now I need to vent without identifying or defaming anyone.)

So here I am. Angry. Bitter. Depressed. Hurt. And feeling all of the guilt that was intended for me to feel because somehow, I am the only person who has any responsibility...

For the record, in the interest of trying to move beyond the anger, bitterness, depression, hurt, and guilt I have been willing to continue to make the uncomfortable choices. To be the person in the line of fire. To be Atticus Finch and do those unpleasant jobs that no one else wants. And it hasn't meant anything. I am still standing in the same fucking spot.

So, I am going to write anyway to try to work through all of my feelings. I've decided that this situation is less about my better intentions than it is about adjusting my expectations. I will simply write to let go of things and maybe that will help.