The Meaning of Life. I Think.

I’m not a positive person.

When the going gets tough, I get down. I’m not certain, in case Freud asks, if I’ve always been this way or if I’m repressing some sexual tension I felt for trees in my youth. The point is that I’m me. I can’t be anyone else nor pretend to feel differently than I do once depressive thoughts take over.

©Meg Ryan of French Kiss

I’ve learned a few copes. I’m not at a dangerous level. I’m just …constantly numbing.

Occasionally, I’ll examine my life. From a somewhat stable mindset, I’ll turn it this way and that in the light of detached study. Why am I depressed? Why don’t I feel? Time and again, I come around to the obvious answer: my current situation.

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I don’t like being a stay-at-home mother. I didn’t want to be a mother. Worse, I never wanted to do dishes and laundry as an unpaid career. My sincere wish as a child was for the fairies who lived on the other side of my mirror to open a portal to their magical kingdom, where I would live in a Neverland situation; without menstrual cycles, age, or health issues -forever. It sounds stupid, but a part of me still holds onto that dream…

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I’ve an overdeveloped imagination and an underdeveloped -oh, heck; I don’t sleep and have no free time. I retain that corner of imagination to draw from when writing fiction.

For the past while, I have been trying to solve THE PROBLEM of my dissatisfaction. Am I unfulfilled because I didn’t go into a specific career field? I didn’t have one in mind. Am I depressed because I lack free time? I could make some. Am I sad at the prospect of no future? Yes, yes I am.

Besides fairies, I dreamt of some job that would be just as magical. I’d be in an office, with office supplies. I’d have a paycheck. I would get to file things or wear business casual or do important tasks. I would attain a prestigious degree and save lives… I think.

But, to what end? What would it all have been for?

Maybe, the point of life is not work. Maybe the point really is home life.

©Warner Brothers, The Wizard of Oz

No one lies on his death bed lamenting more time spent in the office, right?

Right.

I …just …can’t seem to find the right aphorism or life quote to help me feel good about it all. I can’t find a resolution. Maybe YOU have a suggestion?

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Week in review:
Wednesday, September 7: “What’s Your Word?, A Revisit to Resolutions.”

Thursday, September 8: “Swipe Right,” in response to Carrot Ranch‘s prompt: swimmingly.

Friday, September 9: Friday Photo.

Saturday, September 10: “Poetic Collage.”

Sunday, September 11: Quote by George MacDonald.

Monday, September 12: Mormon Monday. The LDS Church is very organized!

Tuesday, September 13: “Altitude Anonymous.”

Wednesday, September 14: Today.

©2022 Chel Owens

Going Postal, XIII

Continued from “Going Postal, I,” “Going Postal, II,” “Going Postal, III,” “Going Postal, IV,” “Going Postal, V,” “Going Postal, VI,” “Going Postal, VII,” “Going Postal, VIII,” “Going Postal, IX,” “Going Postal, X,” “Going Postal, XI,” and “Going Postal, XII,”

Not much happened anymore outside little Charli‘s window. Not much happened in the house, either, now that her big brother and daddy and mommy stayed home. Now, they all played all day like she did, but also not like she did.

“Go away!” her brother, Jer, snapped when she tried to watch his screen.

“I’m busy; not now,” was Daddy’s answer every time he worked on the computer.

“Why don’t you go play with your toys, or with that letters game you like so much?” Mommy said, also watching a screen.

Charli didn’t understand why Jer kept his headphones on, why Daddy gave his computer a mad face, or why Mommy sighed as she played on her phone and sat in the empty hair-cutting room. No carpool drove up and honked. Daddy didn’t have ‘at work.’ Mommies didn’t come get a haircut from her mommy.

Even Santa didn’t always come. Instead of the nice man with white hair, Charli sometimes saw a scary man with scary eyes holding the smile-presents as he climbed their front steps. She never saw when he dropped the boxes on the porch because she hid behind the blue curtains until it was safe.

The smile-boxes were the same, and there were more of them. She didn’t know why Daddy wanted so many; if they were food like Santa told her, why did they need so much? Mommy still got food from the store; Charli just didn’t get to go with her anymore.

“Oh, I don’t go into the grocery store,” Mom had told her when she asked. “They shop for me and bring it out to the car. If you came along, you’d sit in the car and that wouldn’t be fun for you.”

Charli thought about that explanation as Mommy helped put her shoes on. “Why are we going to the store today?” she asked.

“Because,” Mommy said, pulling on the shoe straps, “I need to get our groceries. Daddy went to the post office. Jer wanted to go with Dad.”

“Why did Daddy go to the post office?”

“Because they didn’t deliver some of our packages.”

“Why didn’t they deliver our packages?”

“We don’t know, Honey. No one’s answering the phone.” Mommy sat back and smiled her tired smile. “No more questions. Let’s get in the car.”

They walked through the house to the car in the garage. Charli waited for Mommy to buckle her in her Big Girl Seat, then waited for Mommy to buckle her own seat belt. She watched Mommy’s face scrunch and her eyes move while the car went backwards. Mommy turned back to look where she was driving. Charli looked out her window.

The world outside the car window wasn’t fun, like the house window wasn’t fun. She twisted around and waved buh-bye when Mommy turned onto The Busy Street. Just before she turned on her game, Charli saw Santa park his truck by her house.

The scary man was with him.

Continued to “Going Postal, XIV.”

 

©2020 Chelsea Owens