Stark Raving MADGE

Microblogging, Old School

I sure do like my iPad a lot. My camera? Love. (Although, I'd really like to upgrade the lens.) You know I cherish those itty bitty shoes that used to grace the whisper-soft feet of my beloved, precious children (cue the barfing). But this? This is my most prized possession...

This is my Great-Grandfather's Line A Day journal. This store-bought diary, copyrighted in 1892, features a Prefatory (So, old time-y! Not a Preface...Prefatory!) that is eerily relevant today:

"You have neither the time nor the inclination, possibly, to keep a full diary. Suppose, however, out of the multitude of matters that crowd each day, you jot remembrance. Such a book will be of the greatest value in after years. What a record of events, incidents, joys, sorrows, successes, failures, things accomplished, things attempted. This book is designed for just such a record."

Several of these completed records exist and my various second-cousins and relatives have other copies. Mine records the daily life of my Great-Grandfather (later referred to as Sir Pop) from 1917 through 1921.

I love reading this book. The prefatory was right, it has been a great gift for me to have this glimpse into my family's life. They were (hmm, how to put this delicately...?) absurdly rich wealthy, so it is not your typical chronicle of the early 20th century. They had several homes. They traveled to places most people of the day only dreamed of (in their private train car). Sir Pop appears to have only worked occasionally and as more of a hobby. Besides hanging out at The Exchange and lunching at the Banker's Club, photography and filmmaking were other favored hobbies. He was a dandy, only one generation from the source of his money. He had married a girl from much older money, and was always looked down upon by her family. None of us can figure out the dynamic of their marriage, but I've heard that, while they were comfortable companions, he was suspected to be gay. While there is no insight related to that, there is a lot (A LOT) of information.

Some entries are pretty mundane...

Just the basic details: Weather, dinner plans, etc.

Other entries send me to Wikipedia...

Turns out the Alcazar Hotel in St Augustine, Florida is still there.

And some entries give me the chills. Like the one from November 11, 1918...

"Whistles announcing signing of armistice by Germany started at 5am. We were awakened by them. I got up & went to club & after walked down to 42nd st & Bway. Got sandwich and coffee at Automat. Home for breakfast. Out in limousine with F, children & M.M. to see the crowds. Wild rejoicing at the ending of the war. I went down to Wall St & lunched alone at Bankers Club. General holiday. F and I went to see Nothing But Lies at the Longacre Theater in the evening. A Great day. Father dined with us."

It's got me thinking that his approach to chronicling is a nice hybrid of Twitter and blogging. It's short and sweet, but consistent. It doesn't always say much, but tells a story in its entirety. I like it.

 

Hummmm....

I guess if I start out whinging, there's nowhere to go but down. 

I have spent the last seven years aggravated. For so long it growled in my ear, the instigators a fierce, animal presence. The four-year legal battle followed by a two-year home renovation were daily, hair-pullingly aggravations. Whatever could go wrong did. Every decision was second-guessed. Patience, already not my strong suit and typically pretty thin, was beaten threadbare.

And then it was all done. Over. 

Initially the silence was deafening. The growling was gone. 

There was just life. Daily life. No calls with bad news, no future-altering decisions to be made, no jaw-dropping invoices to be paid.

Just life. (And laundry.) (There's alllllllways laundry.)

But gradually, with this new existence, daily life started to growl. Well, not so much growl as hum. A low-volume reminder to be annoyed. At what? Doesn't matter. Whatever's closest.

It's as though my psyche can't let go of that baseline aggravation. It's taken almost a year for me to recognize that. Just typing it out is starting to dull the roar. What the hell, me? Fucking relax already. Things are good. Life isn't always smooth. You don't have to snap at everything... 

Ugh. What!?! 

See.

 

Here We Go. Again.

It's come to this: I don't know what I want. I don't know who I am. I am adrift.

Lately my identity doesn't stray much further than mother and wife. What else is there?

?

?

?

*plink* 

That was the pin dropping as I struggle for a response. 

Over the last several years my life has taken on a weird, Munchausen-y flavor. This is not to say that I have caused or have any plan to cause anyone harm (good GOD, who does that?) (besides Mischa Barton's mother in Sixth Sense) (Freak!). But it seems like who I have become is a little too intertwined with the struggles my kids have had and the lasting effects of my husband's near-death accident seven years ago.

I want there to be something else on my personal CV beyond Expert in Wrangling State Benefits for Developmentally-Delayed Children or Proficient at Paying Monthly Expenses and Grocery Shopping. I want to be busy with more than the subtle dance move I call: Keeping Track of Everything the Brain-Injured Husband Does Without Making it Look Like I Am Because That Makes Him Feel Defensive (and Angry) (and Sad).

I try to feel fulfilled by volunteer work. (Eh, I don't.) (This does not speak well of me, I know.)

I try to enjoy the free time I have with my kids, but often find myself frustrated and irritated. 

I try to imagine my perfect existence. But, am constrained by competing desires: Want to be productive, but don't want to farm out childcare. Want to move onto next stage of life, but still want another baby. Want to be better at keeping up with housework, but am so ADD about it. Want to WANT SOMETHING. Something specific. Something maybe not even attainable, but a concrete goal!

I am the most grateful person I know. Everyday I am thankful to have my husband alive, my kids healthy and the financial freedom to spend even five minutes ruminating on all this shit instead of rushing off to a job I hate. I AM SO GRATEFUL. So grateful that I feel like I'm wasting my time here. Wasting time feeling partial. Feeling like there is something I am supposed to be that I am missing. I'm wasting time beating my head against the wall because, I don't know. It feels good? 

Once, during a particularly difficult transition point in my life I wrote a blog. It helped immeasurably. Let's hope it does this time too, because all this head banging is starting to hurt.