Sadness

I am sad. So frickin sad.  When I was little I would scream into my pillow or write a crappy poem that my mom would let me burn to help release my feelings. Now I guess I will blog. Have you ever had a feeling that is so overwhelming that it cripples you, and yet this remarkably strong feeling has no name, no definition? You just want to cry so you do, but nothing changes, you are still sad but now you are wet, and your face is puffy. I don’t want to get into it but let’s just say I have not always been this sad. Something happened and I can’t get over it. It is slowly destroying my life. Even at my happiest moments this demon creeps in and reminds of what could have been. As the keyboard gets hazy through my tears I wonder if this will help.  I am not looking for condolences; I just need to scream, so this blog is my pillow. Mommies can’t break down, we stay strong, and we smile. I have made the mistake of letting Daily see me cry. It upsets her and it is hard for me to explain to her what is wrong with mommy, so I lie. I tell her mommy is OK, and I smile. Then I write, “Dear diary, what is wrong with me?”  So today I publish my diary, I don’t know why.

Potential

When I was young I coveted blank books. I bought them in hopes to fill them with all of my wonderfully original and awe inspiring adolescent thoughts, foolishly believing that one day I would look back at them and think, my God I was such a brilliant teenager. Then one day it dawned on me that my thoughts were not awe inspiring they inspired nothing but a sense of pity. I was not an individual capable of original thought as my English teachers had led me to believe.  I had the same thoughts as every other pubescent girl. Soon the books became too beautiful to fill with my meaningless scribble and I put them on shelves and eventually in boxes…blank, just as beautiful as I had found them, still waiting to be filled with brilliance, still full of the potential that I have always hated to hear I was once full of.

As I got a bit older I decided to search for the origin of original thought. I read books, took classes in history, mythology, religion, philosophy, sociology…I  sat through lectures and took tests and wrote papers to prove just how much I had learned about all these amazing subjects. Unfortunately after four years of college the one thing I forgot to learn was what to do with the degree I would eventually earn. I went to college to study and learn. I didn’t know I was supposed to use all that to make a career. So eventually the diploma came in the mail to prove just how hard I had worked. Now it sits in boxes along with all those blank books…so full of potential, just like I had once been. 

Now as 30 rapidly approaches I am trying to purge myself of all this potential that is taking up valuable storage space and mocking me each time I reach for a sweater in the back of my closet. Like the size six jeans still sitting in my closet, I can’t seem to throw them out. I am afraid to open the boxes, afraid the potential that I have locked up will somehow escape and then what will be left?

When I was young I hated being told I had potential. All that meant to me was I could be so much better than I was, but for some reason, probably my own laziness, I was not. My grandmother no longer talks about my potential, unless of course it is in the past tense. So here I am a 30 year old child wondering what to do when I grow up and still afraid of the monsters hiding in my closet.

As my first “official” blog, I would like to begin by making it clear that I am just as my title states, just another bored housewife. I do not posses any secrets to life, I don’t have any expertise on…, well anything really. This blog is not really meant to be anything more than my chance to go on about whatever I feel like for longer than the allotted amount of characters allowed to me by facebook.  So anywho here it is, My blog. I apologize in advance for the horrendous grammar.