I’ve been busy. Work takes up an inordinate amount of my time, which is a shame, but since it pays the bills (or most of them, anyway) and my writing hasn’t quite reached that level, I’ve got to keep the job. Money is more than a little tight, and my parents have decided they can’t help with expenses, even though they promised they would do so when we were working on getting the house. Ok, I’m drowning in debt right now and it sucks. Like a lot. And I’m a little scared. But I have a job…
The manuscript is coming along. Editing is taking a great deal of time, since I’m trying to be more careful and not let some of those “brain bumps” slide by. It takes a lot more effort and energy on my part, but I’m pretty sure the final outcome will be worth it.
Moving has hit a low point, however. I’ve been working on trying to get the place in order, but there is so much stuff here, stuff that isn’t even mine, that I’m more than a little overwhelmed. It’s taking a lot longer than I expected, which depresses me, which slows me down, then I have to leave to take care of the parental units, so I lose time working on the house, which depresses me, and stuff doesn’t get done, which depress—you get the picture. I’m a little depressed.
Here’s the deal: these are first-world problems. I have a job. I have a home (well, technically, I have two of them, which is one too many, but that’s a twisted tale filled with “are you fucking kidding me?”)
But these are problems only those with plenty can claim.
Yes, my life is currently a shit-storm of messy, but I’m whole. My children were able to grow up without fear of being blasted into oblivion by a car bomber (although there was always that fear in my heart of some lunatic gunman coming onto campus and fucking everything up), there was food on the table and a roof over our heads. Our vehicles were usually functional, and if one went toes up, I was a stay-at-home mom who could drive the man to work and pick him up again if I needed the car for anything.
Life wasn’t perfect, but it was good. It still is.
Life isn’t perfect, but it is still good. I have so much, and a great deal for which I am thankful.
And I just realized that I am lucky.
If my house wasn’t so full of other people’s stuff… if there was room in my house, I would be happy to host a refugee family. I would do my best to give them some security, shelter, and whatever they need that I have.
But the place is a wreck and stuff is piled everywhere while I attempt to get organized, so I’m reluctant to open my doors to anyone. Maybe they wouldn’t care. Maybe they would be so grateful for a safe place to stay, they wouldn’t mind the boxes of stuff piled here and there, boxes of embarrassing excess that makes me want to scream and tear my hair. Maybe they could use that stuff when they have their own place to stay.
Looking around, I see now that I have so much, and I’m a very lucky woman.