The promise of my life, the potential, has churned into a heaping pile of feces. Eventually, if you don’t use your potential, it turns into heaps of acrid mush—heavy, wet, and unbearable Loserdom looms above my head like a dark halo.
I don’t think that being a mother alone is my life’s work. It’s important, yes. Very important? Yes. Can I be a supportive, smart, loving parent and be an amazing painter? Accomplished writer? Death-defying tightrope walker?
Modern ideas about parenting are bullshit. I refuse to dedicate my entire existence to S. She needs some room to breathe, to become. And yet…I feel guilty working, meeting, giving lectures and presentations, being away from her.
Circles. Where she stops no one knows.
Time to go back to therapy? Maybe.