Get up or Give up. Too tired to even decide.Mature

There it is. Again. That painfully, lame alarm screeching what used to be my favourite song. Long ago. I now despise every damn chord. It is nothing but a symbol of having to ‘get up’. One of many things I can’t seem to do these days.

Can’t versus don’t want to. Physically, if I’m honest, I can get up. I should be grateful. It’s purely a pre-programmed auto-pilot action though.

Like a robot I brush my teeth. Like a robot, the reflection glares back soul-less. A mechanical response.  Getting up is the farthest thing from what I want to do. Why? Because there is so much I want to accomplish, which would ironically require that I get up. It’s twisted and stupid.

Tired of this daily see-saw of trying to wake up, of trying to do “right”. Make the kids healthy lunches, get them to school on time, not rage in the traffic, get to work – motivated (hahahahah), get through the day and not miss my kids athletics meeting. Is this ‘box’ really all its wrapped up to be? Do my kids look at me, heads cocked and think – “what the …….. is this your life?”

Of all the things I want to do there is one major decision that halts them. Do I truly want to just switch off, “let the cables sleep” forever? Do I want to call it quits? Tap-out. Kill time until it’s done like a brainwashed worker-drone. Sleep and never have to wake up?

Or, do I try and give this a real go.

Somehow, the fight for a life worth living, a life my kids can be proud of, sounds overwhelming. Exhausting to an already burnt out soul. Real, raw life. The kind my dad would be proud of that I lived.

If he was here he would be giving me such a fat lecture right about now.

Wish he was.

I sometimes think that if I could just live the life I want to, everything would be alright. Do everything possible for my kids. Paint and write songs while they are at school. Hell, even make the effort to cook up something special every night for the hubby. Make each damn day mean something. Dammit.

Seems it can’t be so. Bills need to be paid. My art and music do don’t warrant quitting my job unless my kids could live off fish food. Some artists make more money for one piece than I earn in a month. And they don’t have the high blood pressure or laughable bank balance.

Dad: “What do you want to be when you grow up, my baby girl?”

Me: “Like you Dad! Amazing! And smilin’.”

Another day done. Another overwhelming crash of disappointment. A sickening, lingering reek of lack of accomplishment.

My son and I are brushing our teeth before bed. “You deserve me to be smiling back at you”, I think. I give him the biggest, sloppiest, toothpaste kiss. All over his face. It’s the least I can do.

Tomorrow is another day. That should be a blessing, right?

Climbing into bed I change my alarm tone to something, anything other than what it was. And while I’m at it, I set it for an hour earlier then normal. Whether I actually do what I’m spontaneously planning to, is another story…

Maybe tomorrow is the ‘one day’ I’ve been waiting for? Maybe not.

I might just push snooze again.

The End

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