I gave up on today about seventeen minutes into it. That's how I get through shit - by giving up.
There's a huge relief in letting go, realising you cannot cope anymore, and letting the world wash over you repeatedly; instead of fighting and struggling every damn day.
I tweeted the other week that the only way I could get through this next bit of my life was with a pair of black and gold hi-tops, a fuck-off tattoo and a Salt'N'Pepa CD. I now have all of those things, and all of those things are helping me get through.
I don't how they are but they just are. I don't question it. I've appropriated superhero powers to my hi-tops and I have them on today and they make me feel good. I'm taking my two boys off to do something fun in the world before I tear this whole house apart and set fire to it. I am an enraged beast who wants to fuck shit up so hard it would be the most spectacular spectacle of all time. OF ALL TIME. I'm also a loving mother choosing to live through my painfully painful pain and feel my emotions, instead of doing the societal norm of blocking my pain out.
There's different degrees of suffering in the world and some people go through more than I do but right now there's no gold, silver or bronze in this stuff. There's only caverns, oceans of hurt and loss and grief and I cannot stand life, no not at all. But I still have to live the stupid thing because the alternatives all suck and I really like my new hi-tops.
Maybe that's how humans get through things ..... admitting that we don't. We endure, hold on, let go, fuck up, bay at the moon, cry, create, bake, knit, fuck.
I think my blog is so successful because I write my humanity on this page for the whole world to see and that's getting to be a rare thing in this homogenised, packaged, structured and airbrushed world. I think people come here and read my words and they feel a bit better because they can relate to my hairy ballbag blowing in the cyclone. You see me hanging on for grim life with my fuck-off tattoo giving all of my Dark Past the finger .... you tell me you wish you were like this and you already are. If only you had more faith in yourselves to just be yourselves. There's nothing wrong with it and it gets not even scary anymore.
Maybe the world doesn't want you to succeed. Maybe the people around you want to tear you down every chance they get. Maybe life has wanted to kill you ever since you drew your first scrawny breath but you've endured all this time anyway. All of us walking around are fucking miracles and we don't even know it - we've lost it, we forget.
I have extraordinary foresight and I know exactly how much of a hard slog I'm in for. This intense grief of watching one of my beloved family members die in front of my very eyes has knocked all of the wind out of my sails. All of my sails can suck all of my penises. I will draw strength, AGAIN, from my brokenness and dark. I will use my anger as the gleaming motivation and fuel that it is, and I will fashion my own little boat out of the beautiful rotting carcasses of my dead selves.
And I don't even know what that means. I just make shit up as I go along.