So I've compiled a list of my ugly truths, not the least of which includes my hatred of motherhood.
Each truth on the list is countered with its own life-sucking paradox, not the least of which includes the fierce love I have for my children.
Each paradox contains the beautiful lies I've been living in order to survive the paradoxes.
Each lie contains a way to get the fuck over it already.
Though, I can't say that each lie's method of getting the fuck over it is known to me yet.
I've also compiled a list of things I want. A goal list, as it were.
The how-to-get-there list is still in the works.
I really just don't have the first fucking clue.
The foundation phrase for every good agnostic, eh? But you know what I think? I think, fuck labels. I do know something.
I do know that I will never, ever under any circumstances (except perhaps starvation) step foot in scrubs, in a nursing home, ever again. No more corpses to bathe. No more adult diapers to change. No more linens to roll, and tuck, and fold, and spread, or wash out. No more giant hoppers with water pressure so intense you're lucky to walk away from the experience without shit water on at least 25% of your clothing, and/or hair. Most of all, no more responsibility for people who like to split their heads wide open when you are least expecting it. Also, no more having the shit beat out of me on the daily, for doing nothing more than trying to help. No more working 16 hours shifts without a break. No more expensive, ineffective inserts for my shoes. No more. I am done.
That's right. No more nursing. No more "loving people for a living."
With a huge chunk of my identity missing, I feel violently afraid and excitingly liberated. (Yeah, that's on the list, too.) I don't believe the universal-magical-powers-that-be are going to hit me over the head with some super-awesome idea for my next adventure. So... trying to see through my fears and my wounds is all that I have left to figure out what exactly it is that I want out of this next chapter of my life. A chapter that involves raising, not babies or children, but adolescents. I don't know if you've met any adolescents lately, but they're a frightening bunch. And they smell bad, too.
Filtering all the bullshit out of the everything to find the useful parts is exhausting enough, but come Monday I'm either going to have to start churning out some serious fiction, or some serious resumes. Shame I don't have more time to really get to the bottom of it, but maybe I'm wrong, maybe the bottom will come surging up to greet me somewhere along the way. Unlikely, but possible, I suppose. I've always been more of a stuck in the undertow kinda girl. That's all I'm looking to change. Really. ... and maybe reality too but that's another story entirely.