by BIANCA WORDLEY
As I stand washing the dishes, the kids start complaining about dinner, again. I try to ignore them. I look down at my wrinkled hands. They look old. I push my hair back off my face, my crooked fringe I stupidly cut myself, and I wipe some suds off my wobbly belly. I look down at the raggedy slippers on my feet and at my ill-fitting tracksuit pants and sigh. I am everything I didn’t want to be. I’m a frumpy, middle-aged housewife. I’ve lost my identity.
With my back to my family, I start to cry. My tears drop into the soapy water. Even my sadness is diluted by domesticity.
My husband touches my shoulder and asks me what’s wrong. I say I don’t know and escape to my bedroom. I need space. My life is baring down on me, suffocating me.
I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at the wall. My tears have stopped. I have nothing left to give. I feel like an empty shell. I know I have to write it down. It will help.
This is why I blog, because it helps me tap into that part of me which refuses to be smothered by the mundane.
It’s not the only reason. I blog because I love to write. I love connecting with other people. I love making people laugh.
I blog because I want to document a day in my family’s life, for memories’ sake.
I blog because I think I need to get my stats up – a picture here and a quip there.
I blog because I have a burning desire to comment on a societal issue or to make a statement about a completely ridiculous celebrity.
I blog because someone’s paid me to.
I blog because I’m drunk and I saw an ad on TV and it makes me want to take pictures of my belly for the world to see.
Then there are the times I blog because I have a desperate need to be heard. The times I take leave from my family abruptly to cry. The times I sit on my floor and stare into space. The times I wonder where I went.
When I sit motionless and the words “you are nothing” swirl in my head. When I take stock of what I’ve done that day and I realise being a mother is a thankless task. Daily grind. Where they take what little you have left of yourself and slowly chip away at it. How from the moment you wake up you are nothing but their vessel. You try and fill yourself up with morsels of the life you chose to leave behind, but with each year they are harder to find.
I blog at these times because I want someone to hear me. I want someone to acknowledge my existence. To tell me that I am more than just a mother.
I write because it’s easier for me to express how I’m feeling to my computer. I go online because it’s easier for me to sustain friendships with people I do not see. I don’t like face-to-face concern – the sorry smile. The awkward filling of silence.
I write because once I have written the words I feel the fog start to lift. Each word plugs into my soul like a charger. Each sentence fills me up again. It reminds me of who I am. It helps build my resolve. It helps me realise that I chose this path of motherhood and although I had no idea what I was signing myself up for, it is without a doubt the most challenging and most rewarding ride of my life.
Each word I write resonates in my heart and rips me out of my numbness. I write it down and share it because I know if I am feeling this way someone else must be too and I want them to not be afraid.
I blog because without it I would feel alone.
Why do you blog?
This post was originally published on Bianca’s blog here and has been republished with full permission.
Bianca Wordley is an Adelaide-based writer, journalist, broadcaster and publisher of bigwords blog. She has three children, a not-so-secret love of reality television and believes women can do anything. You can visit her on twitter and facebook.