I Don’t Feel Human - A Short Story
Some days I feel like the epitome of Wonder Woman. The gold shield bracelets, able to deflect any projectile, including vomit. The tight corset, holding together everyone’s emotions, including my own. The ability to heal the wounded with a soft gaze, a slight touch, and a little kiss on the cheek. The golden lasso, bringing truth and light to a world that can easily feel so dark and full of deceit in the middle of the night. The super strength, carrying both children simultaneously from the car through pouring rain. The witty smarts, keeping things light and humorous when everyone really just wants to scream or cry or both.
Some days I feel like a regular ol’ human, just Diana. Well, for me, just Olivia. The human me has emotions; anger, fatigue, loneliness; but also happiness, joy, and humility. The human me has limits; too much touching, too much talking, too much play time, too much. Just too much. The human me is spontaneous and fun, loves to play bored games and add stories to a 3 year olds wide and vivid imagination.
But then there are days, weeks even, where I feel more like The Cheetah, Wonder woman’s biggest villain. She is cursed and angry, nothing will stop her to get what she wants.
The Cheetah has super senses, hearing everything, seeing everything, smelling everything, feeling everything. I understand completely why she’s so pissed off all the time. These hyper senses are exhausting. Being in tune to your entire surroundings 24/7 might be great when you need to know who is hiding where, or in my case, when a kid pooped their whole pants and we have to pull over on the side of the highway to get them cleaned up. But that enhanced ability to hear, see, smell, and feel also takes a lot of energy, physically, emotionally, and mentally.
When I feel like The Cheetah, I am short tempered, snapping at the child for playing like children do. I struggle to communicate with Paul, anyone really, to explain to them why I am cranky or upset; half the time I don’t even know why myself. Mostly, I’m just tired.
As a mom to two small children, I am already tired, it comes with the job. But when I get into this mode of feeling like The Cheetah, I am so far into the tired realm that it takes so much more energy to return to a simple human, then more still to be Wonder Woman. It’s like it would just be easier to stay The Cheetah, as hard as it is.
Why is it easier to be The Cheetah and so so much harder to be Wonder Woman?
It’s a question I have asked myself almost daily the last few weeks. But at this point I don’t even care if I’m Wonder Woman, I just want to be Woman, human, Diana, Olivia. Just the human form of physical existence.
—
It’s been 3 weeks since I have last written a blog. A process that has been therapeutic for me, writing has been my outlet for a while now. But I’ve been stuck in The Cheetah form. Quick to anger, my overstimulated self just wants to go crawl in a hole and get away from whatever this life is trying to do to me.
“I want to go to the beach”, I tell Paul after a rather heated argument that I started over literally nothing.
“You have never been a beach person”. He is questioning where this is coming from. Why now? What is happening in that brain of yours? I want to help, but I don’t know how.
“I know. But I think it’s because I have always had something to think about. I have never been the kind of person that wants to relax, I want to do things. But right now, I need an off button. I need to sit and not be interrupted. I need to watch something in motion but requires no energy from me. I need to sit in the sun and soak up the warmth it provides.”
“But we can’t go to the ocean”, he ponders. “What if… you stick your feet in the kiddie pool and I spray you with the hose?” He’s trying to make me laugh.
I giggle but that’s all I can muster. Where do I go from here?
The next day a good friend shoots me a Marco Polo. “Hi, Love. What are you up today?”
“I can’t go to the ocean so I’m cleaning”
I tell her that I’m having a hard time lately. Paul took the kids for a few hours and I’m cleaning the camper.
We have been in the camper for 6 months now. Maybe I’m starting to get a little claustrophobic, sick of being on top of each other where the mess piles high 30 times faster than it did before when we had an actual house. We have a deck built in the barn where the camper is parked and 5 acres to go explore, plus many outdoor activities around town like the zoo, the children’s museum, parks, pools, the library. But the kids are attached to me no matter where we are, the 200 square foot camper or on a hike in a 2,000 acre forest preserve, they must be in physical contact with the mom.
Finally, the camper is clean and I get in the shower. While showering in a camper isn’t exactly comfortable, I can shave my legs, wash and brush out my hair, even soak in the warm water for a few seconds, without a small child coming in pulling down the curtain, trying to climb in with me, a toddler yelling “MMMAAAAAMMMM”, or an infant crying because she can’t handle 5 minutes without me.
I’m drying off with my new favorite towel, a large Muslim towel, when I have a thought. Well it’s more like a catchy title.
Maybe I misdiagnosed myself.
Although I do still think a day at the beach would be a good way for me to recharge, I am stuck in Indiana with Paul’s work schedule, clingy kids, and a budget to keep so we can buy the property of our dreams in North Carolina.
A few hours without kids, listening to a podcast, doing dishes, and working a little for my part time gig was all I really needed. It was as though the fogged dissipated, the sun came out, an easy 75 degrees F, and a soft breeze blowing through my hair. I was recharged. If only for a short minute.
Paul returned with the kids and the chaos resumed. But this time was a little different. I went from feeling like The Cheetah before they left to Wonder Woman while they were gone and while I went back down the personality slide scale, I was back to Human Me, just Olivia.
Olivia is patient and kind. Olivia has a big heart and loves to cuddle her family during movie night. But Olivia is also imperfect. Olivia can feel overwhelmed, overstimulated, and out touched. Olivia gets upset, frustrated and angry.
But thanks to this slight recharge, I realized that Olivia, unlike The Cheetah, has the ability to stop and think about her further actions. Olivia can take a deep breath and apologize for her outburst. Olivia can forgive herself while she still learns how to be a mom, a human.
Maybe feeling stuck in The Cheetah form can be solved with a little grounding of myself to myself. Like Tinker Bell sewing Peter Pans shadow back to him. I just need to tie myself back into peace and solidarity.
It reminds me of a conversation a friend and I had about flamingos. After their babies hatch, the parents beautiful fluorescent hot pink feathers turn to a pale, discolored, white-ish. I guess there is a thread of posts on various social media outlets about it right now. I’m not on social media other than to post my stories so I hadn’t seen it. However, it feels very relatable.
The only energy stores I have left after caring for two small children every day allows me to eat, and that’s about it. I see the circles under my eyes, hairy legs and untamed eyebrows, my knotted curls on top of my head in an ugly messy bun (not the kind of messy bun I used to make on purpose to look “cute”, like I “threw my outfit together” when I had worked on that “messy bun” for about an hour… oh to be young and without kids again…). Even my hands are aging; which feels very weird to say but I see that my hands are not the thin, tight skinned carpals and metacarpals I remember having. The wedding ring I would proudly wear is placed safe in my jewelry box, a black silicone band takes its place until my real ring fits again, my fingers still holding onto that baby weight. My clothes usually consist of running shorts or leggings with a nursing top. I went thrift store shopping and found a few pairs of shorts that fit and make me feel cute, but my nursing tops still make a daily appearance, convenience over fashion for a breastfeeding mom.
So my pink, my confident, outspoken, tough pink, has most certainly faded to a pale undertone exhibiting exactly how many times I was awaken through the night to change a diaper, make a bottle, breast feed a baby, pee, or just lie there waiting for the shattering anxiety to pass.
It’s hard for me to make a declaring statement to “get my pink back”, as they say, because this season of chaos and tiredness and overwhelm is not over yet. As much as I want and possibly need it to be, it’s not.
So where do I go from here?
The answer came to me really out of nowhere. Paul was on duty and like every other # WhenPaulsOnDuty, it was kind of chaos. The week of the Fourth of July was a lot for us. In a matter of 5 days out of 7 we had parties, get to togethers, and late nights. Between the overstimulation of friends to see and talk to, fatigue set in. So by the time Thursday night came around there were a lot of emotions being felt by everyone.
Lincoln was being a crank butt, but was okay watching cartoons on PBS. Sydney was ready for bed but refused to go to sleep the three previous times I put her down. Finally, with Lincoln watching tv, I kick back in the recliner and try to rock a fussy baby to sleep. But nothing is working.
I pat her butt to a heart beat rhythm, the way she has fallen asleep since she entered this world; didn’t work.
We got outside, breath a little fresh air, nope.
I play the faithful James Taylor but she isn’t having it.
They had already had a bath to begin this escapade so I am officially out of ideas.
My frustration is growing and I feel a dark red anger start to boil over me. The Cheetah about to make her appearance. I look down at Sydney, her signature large blue eyes starting back at me with fear and sadness and confusion.
I think about her birth; hours of strong contractions, feeling defeated. I wanted to give birth unmedicated, no epidural this time, no narcotics, just my own inner strength. They say that transition is the hardest part of labor, you feel like you can’t go forward but it’s the peak of the curve, you’re almost done. But really, it’s after birth that is truly the hardest. The late nights and pure exhaustion that are the true testament. “How big a boy are ya?” as my dad says at a tough job in his slight twang.
I need something to grab onto.
I close my eyes and unconsciously see a strong, towering maple tree. Probably a hundred years old, wise from weathering many sorts of storms.
I thought of that tree through Sydney’s birth and I think of it now. I start humming.
“OMMMMMMM”
I am yelling the whisper as hard and low as my baritone will take me. I’m no soprano, but I also don’t have a deep voice either.
She immediately quiets. I stop only long enough to take a quick breath in.
“OMMMMMMMM” suck in air “OMMMMMMM” suck in air
I don’t know how long it’s been. Lincoln is still on the couch watching cartoons, but I realize that I had to open my eyes to awaken my conscience. I look down and see Sydney is fast asleep. What happened? Was I asleep? Did I black out?
I have heard many people talk about the power of meditation. I have read books and articles all about the healing and peace it brings. But I have only experienced a meditative state once in my life.
I was pregnant with Sydney and working hard at positive affirmations and thoughts to power up my mental strength for the unmedicated birth I wanted. I took a long hot shower and sat in the tub, letting the water rain down my head and back. I closed my eyes and did the breathing just like they said, I tried to clear my mind. “This isn’t working” I thought. I was getting frustrated. My mind would not shut off, no matter what I thought about, I kept thinking!
But then, a sliver of peace came into my thoughts, I ran into it as fast as I could, until I wasn’t running at all, I was floating. No swaying. No standing. “It’s grandmother willow”. That huge, old, solid tree sat before me. I stayed there for awhile, I really don’t know the exact time but it doesn’t matter. I was there. Present in the peace. Open in the freedom to just be.
“I never want to leave.”
“But you must.”
“But I can stay here, it’s warm and comfortable.”
“The water is going to get cold soon. Bring yourself back to reality but know that you can come here anytime you want. When you need me, I am here.”
My logic tells me that this conversation was with myself, but there’s a small part of me that thinks it was with someone, something, else. Either way, it was a beautiful experience.
I have tried to go back there several times but it only comes in memories. My thoughts are racing too fast, my mind is worried about too much, my kids are yelling too loud.
But when I hummed to Sydney, I went back there. Only this time, I wasn’t trying to go and no one told me to stay or to leave. I was there and then I wasn’t.
—
The last few weeks have brought me a lot of self doubt, a lack of confidence, a misery in existence, a desire to be someone else, somewhere else.
Early motherhood is hard. I wish I had a fancy word for it or a beautiful articulation. But I don’t. And I don’t know how to navigate it either.
As a young married woman, I had it all figured out. I knew what I wanted and I took what was mine. My friends would talk about how my confidence could change a room. The next logical step was to take that badass, successful woman and make her a badass, successful mother to a couple of badass successful children.
The days that I feel like Wonder Woman, I believe that I am a badass, successful mother to a couple of badass, successful children.
The days that I feel like The Cheetah, everything is on fire and going to hell in a hand-basket.
The days that I feel like Diana, my mission is to just get through the day, piece by piece, moment by moment, the good, the bad, the ugly, and the beautiful.
—
As Paul does, he wanted to fix me. We may not be able to go to the ocean, but we can go to a beach and this beach in particular has big beautiful trees surrounding it. We went to a lake near us. A lake I grew up around where I was wild and free with so much I was begging to learn.
As children do, they wanted to do their own thing. But I just wanted to relax. I fought them and fought them until finally, I gave in.
We built sand castles and walked the whole length of the beach. We looked at fish and met new friends. We waded in the water and maybe most importantly, I sat down and watched the waves. I looked out and study the trees.
It’s so interesting what our minds really try to tell us. Just like the water and the trees, we don’t have control over the things around us. We can only control what we do with that energy. We can use it make ourselves stronger or we can let it bend us until we break.
Maybe I need to stop trying to control the things I cannot control and work only the things I can
My life is amazing. I am living a life that many only dream of doing. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t get tired or overwhelmed or frustrated with my day.
There are days to be productive, to grow, and there are days to slow down, relax, heal.
Life is life. There is no measured goal or finish line. I am here as a biological creature to wake up, eat good food, do something outside, and support my community.
I say I want a beach but I think what I really want is the freedom a “vacation” gives you. But the reality is that I am on vacation everyday. I can be spontaneous and I can plan my day. I can change our plans based on how everyone feels. In theory that sounds so freeing but over time it has left me without a sense of purpose, without an outlet for my creativity.
Vacation feels so freeing because you have a job and responsibilities to get back to. But I don’t have the standard, typical set of responsibilities. At least not the ones I want to take a week long vacation to the Bahamas from.
What I need is to feel purpose outside of being a mom, of being needed. I want to be creative and imaginative, organized and productive.
So I had a thought…
I recently finished reading Between Two Kingdoms. It’s such a great book but she talks about doing 100 Day Of projects where she can focus on things other than her health, her diagnosis. She can focus on her creativity and authenticity.
I’m going to do 100 Days of Homemaking. I’ll write a journal every day about what homemaking project I did that day. I have so many things I want to do, so I’m going to do them.
Forget about being Wonder Women or even The Cheetah, I’m just going to be Olivia and live the life I am so proud to call mine. In a van, down by the river, free and full of love.
