I need some coffee


Who was it who said “Sleep on it and everything will look better in the morning”? Cause I want to punch them in the face. This is the kind of week I’ve had. My normal litany has run so thin i can see through it. I don’t care if there are other people out there who have it harder than I do, who work harder than I do for less. Why do they have to? Why do I have to? For what? I look at my kids… Sure I love them. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here. And the woman in Taiwan who goes out with her brood to the sweatshop to watch her toddlers work their fingers to the bone while she does the same… Well she wouldn’t either. But what does that mean for me? For her? For everybody else that face impossible situations everyday and try desperately to muck some kind of life out of the series of problems the universe has sent for them to solve? It only means more work. But we do it any way. Why do we do it?

I watched my mother do it. Work her fingers to the bone for kids that wouldn’t understand how hard it was until 15-20 years later. I watched her try to raise 3 kids all by herself… Watched her work 2 jobs while going to school full time. Watched her busy herself in the kitchen while we ate dinner, then scrape our plates after we were done so she could have her OWN meal. She went without a winter coat one year. Re-soled her shoes with duct-tape, and smiled through the shame of a dozen welfare Christmases. And now what? She’s tired, she angry, she’s bitter. She worked so hard to put herself through school in order to be pushed out of her job at 51. She worked and worked and worked… And now when she should be winding her life down to enjoy her later years… She faced with what? More struggling.

I swore I wouldn’t repeat my mother’s life. but here I am. Mucking through the paces at an ecclerrated rate. Look at me! Aren’t I amazing? I can hit all the bases at rapid fire pace. Screw divorced and a single mom of two by thirty… I can do it by 25! I  did do it by 25. Here I am. 25 and struggling and terrified. So what if millions of other women across the face of America are doing the same thing? That’s supposed to make me feel better? All that means to me is there are millions of other women walking around with rocks in there throats. Millions of women who’ve learned how to cry silently, millions of women who feel like every day is an ordeal. Millions of women making millions of phone calls to millions of men that they used to love, trying to keep the hate out of a million voices while they beg for child support that will never come.

I want to file a formal complaint on my (and their) behalf. This isn’t what we signed up for. When we were little girls playing with our Barbies and doodling inside of our Ross Art folders we did not plan to be struggling single mothers. Drafted into life, we were put on the battle fields with no armor or instructions and now we’re fighting dragons with sticks. Could someone just at least start handing out swords?



About Keats

Oh I'm sassy and I'm sexy, So silly sweet-and-sour Delightfully disastrous And deliciously dour I'm flippantly foolish, Filled I am with fear Can't concentrate completely, and my conduct isn't clear But to bravely be my best I Bring bravado back, BEHOLD!

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