I get so stuck in my own head sometimes.
Spinning around on the same thoughts, like a record player that is still spinning, needle down, well after the track has run out.
No one else seems to care so much about things that matter so little, I am sure.
That’s what I tell myself. In an effort to make myself sleep.
In the wee hours of the morning, lost in my own mind, I take everything personally. An unreturned text message. An efficient email that borders on snappy. A friend’s Facebook status from 3 months ago because what is there to do at 2am other than stalk people on Facebook?
Snuggled up in my lime green dressing gown – over three years old and only getting more comfortable – I listen to the heater cut in and out as the temperature begins its early morning nosedive.
Winter here is expensive. But I won’t let my children be cold.
And I wonder, as the whoosh cuts out and the house feels instantly more brittle – am I a good person?
Does being a good person matter?
What is a good person anyway?
Surely not someone so self-absorbed. Someone so consumed with her own thoughts. Selfish with her thought patterns – that doesn’t sound good to me.
But I’m aware of it. I battle it. I do my best to remember what others are enduring, what their lives entail, to be understanding of their experiences.
When I was younger, someone told me of the adage: “never judge until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes” – and, being me, I did what I was told.
I always endeavor to understand where people are coming from. The motivations behind their actions. Which is not always possible.
I often throw my metaphorical hands up and my mind will shout: “But I just don’t understand!”
And as the heater whooshes back into action I recognize that I’m not meant to understand. That’s the beauty and the mystery of people. We’re not the same, and there will always be moments when we think we see another soul clearly.
But just as clearly the understanding will evaporate and we’ll be lost alone again.
I’m too sensitive. I take things to heart – both the good and the bad.
I remember the good things people have said about me. I keep them as badges on my sash, pulling them out for a small confidence boost or to remind myself I am not alone. There is no alone.
We are all in this together.
But then I remember the harsh things just as keenly, mentally flagellate myself for ever allowing another person to have such a low opinion of me. So little respect that they would so openly disregard my feelings, my choices, my person, my life. Especially when I have tried so damned hard to look at the world from their point of view, walk in their uncomfortable shoes.
Self-righteous doesn’t even begin to cover me, I know.
Around and around, the needle skipping, throwing out a crackle. Looking to get back on track. If only, if only, if only. What if, what if, what if.
And it’s 2:30, with the whooshing cutting in and out at an ever increasing pace. The temperature outside plummets and the system struggles to keep the house at a even temperature. Keep my children warm, safe from the biting chill.
And I remember that for now, they are why I am here. They are who I am responsible for and to. My mini-bosses. Their opinion of me, their view of me, is important. The part where they know I love them is the most important.
Knowing that whatever comes throughout the day, their life is one of known, safe and secure love – it cuts out the if only’s and the what ifs. Reminds me that all this spinning in my head is only in my head.
Reminds me of the truth.
I am their Mama. Their comfort. Their guide. When the morning light comes, and they stir,I will go to them and wrap them in my fluffy dressing gown. The one I’ve had since the winter I was pregnant with Roo. And I’ll tell them good morning.
Because really, it is.