I can’t wait until I can just not give a shit! Not a SHIT!
One can hardly fucking breathe for yet another task to be chucked at your head. Every second I have to be triaging tasks and now Astrid doesn’t work anymore! Fuck! And Any.do is not filling up the gap. I need a decent desktop version along with the mobile for it to work for me and these little to-do list extensions are too flimsy for me. It just feels like I’m constantly wasting time just allowing myself to blink for two seconds about the idea of better organization.
And I have to give up ten of those precious minutes to explain how to add an attachment to an email. I’ve been there 7 years. Let that sink in and
And I consider complaining, but the protocol would be to complain to someone whose emails I send for him and would not find it possible to function if I demanded of him what I’d like to demand of her…but at the very least, after tonight’s post-work conversation where I probably was a bit too much of a rabble-rouser, we’re on the same page with the workload and not needing to be interrupted. The plan is to shut the door all day tomorrow. Sounds just fine by me.
The tiredness just hit me. But just as doing these words has become an ingrained habit, I have to go through the process with other things…working even when I’d prefer to turn my brain back off.
Well, I don’t want to retread the same ground, though I continually feel that for me to really address the problems the program is trying to have me address, I need to spend a lot more time marinating and really taking on-board the advice it’s giving me. Making it my own. And the hour at night isn’t enough, but for the moment, it’s all I have so if I backtrack, I’m sorry. This isn’t really for you, anyway.
What beliefs did my mother have about herself and/ or the world that I adopted?
It’s weird. My mother’s size, I feel, was always in contrast to mine as soon as I came of age to actually notice much of anything.
I don’t think my mother ever talked about being beautiful, though I did and do think she is. She used to work at a makeup counter when she was younger and tried to tell us when we first started how to do it.
I think now about how probably that was much more about how she wanted to connect with us and share her knowledge.
But I think at the time, I took it in a negative way, like I wasn’t even able to contemplate that other side of it and treated it as though she thought I was ugly. I think in the absence of her affirmation in that regard, I assumed we all just agreed my younger sister was the pretty one and left it at that. That I was serviceable. Standard. My features unremarkable.
She didn’t keep up with trends or try and spend money on clothes for herself. She would occasionally spend a little bit on makeup, but I don’t remember that happening often. I never looked at her and thought that she was dressing in order to be seen or impress anyone. Not my father, not herself. She always looked nice, to me, but mom-like. Just unencumbered by the masculine gaze.
She did encourage me to dress better and stay covered up. The whole puberty thing took me by…well, surprise would be the gentlest way of putting it. All of a sudden, whatever cuteness I had in childhood was leaving me. Before it was time. And my mother never said I was ugly or fat, but she would talk about being worried and going to help me and getting me on the right path. All of which, reinforced this notion I’d built up in the void of anyone paying me any attention whatsoever, that if I was not like my mother or sisters…or if I was not, like the thought I cleaved to: invisible, with an appearance that was Switzerland when it came to boys…I was…incorrect. I was from some other line. I was veering off course. So on came the powdered weight loss drinks and me skulking laps around the yard, doing exercise tapes alone while my sisters were out with friends in my efforts to please her.
They told me I had my grandmother’s genes. My grandmother was beautiful as a young girl, beautiful always, but when I came into her world, she was older, stocky, short, puffy and soft-skinned. That’s my only memory of her physically, and I remember always feeling like they were teasing me with that reference. She being a woman I couldn’t get my arms around. I always inferred they were calling me fat.
Of course, it makes me sad that I could see such beauty in my parents and still, arbitrarily look at myself as though some sort of wormy fruit mouldering on the ground.
I just got rundown. Unsure of everything. Her direction granted me her tacit approval. Now, making decisions on my own, I still hesitate that I’m slipping outside of her shadow…this invented shadow in the absence of her own.