A photo journal comprised of my thoughts on motherhood and other life happenings, as well as some of professional work as a photographer. Southern California is home.
I go through periods where it’s hard for me to write.
I’ve always thought of myself not so much as a writer, but as a feeler, and – in turn – a writer because, well, I’m obviously into documenting. I used to feel everything. Lately, all I’ve felt is exhaustion; an urge to do nothing at all – like a depressed person who suddenly no longer wants to do things that once excited them. The difference being that I’m not depressed, I’m tired.
And I’m not quite sure why.
I mean, I’m sleeping. I’m eating. And on most mornings I start the day with an energy that would surely give me an edge in the super-mom competition should it actually last any longer than the fleeting 2 hours it actually hangs around. Yup, two hours in and I’m already staring at a sink filled with breakfast dishes on top of the day-before-dishes that I was too tired to wash the night before. And the thought of doing them all overwhelms me.
I start wondering what the point of it all is; why clean up the floor if 5 minutes post-kids-waking-up-from-nap it’s going to be a disaster again? Why bother washing their hands after they go to the bathroom if 2 minutes later they’re going to poke Jimmie’s butthole.
Some days feel like I’m just repeating shit over and over. Make meals – wash dishes – clean their hands – take dog out to pee – wipe their butts – repeat. So monotonously draining. It starts to feel like I’m just going through the motions.
I start to think of other things that usually drag me out of what-seems-to-be the monotony of motherhood; I think about my photography, this blog, our etsy shop — creative endeavors that give me that pep in my step, and I’m bothered by the lack of time I’m able to give. I get fixated on stupid shit like not a single shirt selling in a day or not being able to write when a wave of emotion hits at seemingly the most random time only to find that when I do have the time, the wave has crashed, the thought fled, the inspiration soaked like water into the sand. That’s just what it’s like — trying to catch water and all I’m getting is wet sand; muddy thoughts.
I’m assuming I’m not alone. Tell me I’m not alone.
I go through periods where it’s hard for me to write.