No motivation this week. None. Zero. Zilch. I have such a hard time with that word, too. What is motivation? How can we motivate ourselves? What actually motivates us?
I'm not really talking in a spiritual/religious sense. When I focus upon that, it's easy to see what motivates me. My religion motivates me a lot. A lot, lot. But sometimes --and I think we all face this --I don't want to focus upon it, because it's too hard. Too hard to see around the corner. Too hard to know if what I'm doing is worth it. It is (I don't dispute this, so please don't preach to me), but it's easy to forget. Or see why. Because of mortal eyes.
I'm a dreamer. A day-dreamer. I imagine, often, lives I should have lived, centuries I should have lived in. I see myself surrounded by things that just don't feel right --as if I've been caught into a world I don't belong in. Oh, sure, I could get all "pre-mortal life" on you and claim it's because I miss my Heavenly Home (which is totally spot on, I believe), but I think it's more than that. I'm assuming that most of it is in my mind, though. Mental disconnect makes for some pretty funky day dreams, not to mention belief in the irrational or unrealistic of one's surroundings. But at the same time, I wonder if it's envy I feel, and if it's only envy. Of what? What I don't have, what I don't know, what I can't see, what I don't feel, what I can't think. There is a sadness deep in my chest over things I will never experience, and yet my expectations at 18 years old were pretty low! I've never been a high-maintenance person; never been one to ask for more than what is deemed fair, and yet I find myself at odds with that philosophy, expecting more than I deserve.
Is it wickedness on my part? That fallacy of being mortal? Temptation from satan? Or simply the miscommunication in my brain? I understand the need to pass through all kinds of trial and hardship because having tough things happen to us gives us the ability to appreciate the joy. It teaches us compassion to others. I do not deny the need, nor do I regret the pattern. I do not resent the idea --the fact --that mortality equips us with experience needed to make our lives happier.
And yet --what is happier? Happiness? I've been told that if you have to ask if you are happy, than chances are you are not. Is that true, though? Reassessment of joy?
This week has been filled with nothing but my acute laziness. Monday was filled with one large task: Cleaning out the boys room. It only took a few hours, and it is all I've done this week. I've watched Jane Eyre, Daniel Deronda, and Middlemarch. I've spent countless hours on the couch, wondering where my motivation has gone. I've wondered why I haven't done what needs to be done: Cleaning out the fridge, grocery shopping, doing laundry, cleaning the girls' room, cleaning my room, planning my SS lesson, getting VT appointments set up, writing emails, calling friends, etc. I feel disconnected from my existence, and instead of feeling guilty for sitting, for not making meals, for disappointing the people around me who depend on me, I have felt apathy.
I sit and wonder how different my life would be if I had been given the gift of motivation. Of endurance; strength. I've tried not to compare myself to other women (something my therapist has warned me against), but sometimes it is hard not to see others' strengths in the light of my weaknesses. I long to be bits and pieces of the women I admire; to be a conglomeration of everything I want to be. And I'm not talking about being talented at sewing or really great at scrapbooking --what I need are character traits. Women who stand strong, despite their hardships. Women who know who they are and never apologize for it. Women who stare hell in the face and never back down. Kind women, compassionate women, mothers who love their children fiercely and give up their selfishness to make their homes a sanctuary.
I've often been told that I am a strong, amazing mother. I hate it when I'm told this. I hate it because I don't think my children have turned out amazing because of me. I've been given amazing children in spite of me.
If you, dear reader, were to come to my house today, you would see that my children have had cereal for breakfast and nachos for lunch. Yesterday, they had cereal for breakfast, nachos for lunch, and nachos for dinner. The house is beyond reproach, the children haven't been bathed since Saturday, quite a few children are still in their pajamas, and I haven't moved from the couch all day. Again. I have a cousin coming over to visit, and yet I can't bring myself to clean up for her. There are piles of laundry, my kids have played way too many video games, and can't stop fighting. There is a lot of yelling, tantrums, and toys tossed about the house. And yet, yet, yet --instead of rectifying the situation, getting up, caring, and trying, I continue to sit. And sit some more.
I've tried justifying my actions based upon my pregnancy, but then it induces real guilt: I'm not eating right. I'm not walking like I should. I'm using my pregnancy as an excuse to sit and be lazy; it's just a convenient scapegoat. And it specifically goes against my midwife's instructions.
So where do I go from here? Is this just another "Down Day" I'm writing about that induces gag reflexes in every person who has to read about it? I'd like to think so. These episodes in my life may be frequent, but I know they always pass. I tend to jump back up and go, go, go... until I crash again. I don't like to live like that, though. I don't like the highs and lows. I want consisetency, you know? Something that doesn't really exist, I guess. Change is inevitable. Consistency is a dream.
By the way, I realized that I may have been suited better living as a Gentleman's daughter in the English countryside. I could imagine having a lot of motivation being a mother of several children if I had been given a governess, a cook, servants, gardeners, etc. Which is silly, right? How can money make a person happier? How could giving up all domesticity make me happier? I still think it would be nice to try, though. Just for a litle bit, maybe.