I am I am I am I'm not I'm not I'm not

I'm 39 now. And it's difficult to view my life as successful. Yes, I've raised three kids who are kind. Yes, I have a solid marriage. Yes, I realize that all of those things are most than a lot of 39 year old's have accomplished, but yet I'm unsatisfied.

I wrote a book. It went nowhere. I'm still immensely proud of the fact that I wrote it and have no regrets. I wouldn't have done anything differently. I knew I was writing a love story and I knew it was unfailingly optimistic. To be honest I think that's just what I needed in my life at that point in time so it's what came out of me.

I have another story brewing in my mind but I don't know if I have the energy to put it all down in a document. I have so many words inside me, dying to get out. I often think in phrases that I should be writing down, recording, storing away somehow. I joke about having a pretty house, pretty tree outlook on life but the truth is that I think, perhaps, too much. My brain is always running a million miles an hour and it's been harder lately to make it shut up.

I used to not be able to cry. Now almost anything can make me cry. I still try to hide it in the way that what could be sobbing, the kind that makes your stomach ache, turns into a few tears blinked back as they run down my cheeks. I'm not good at it.

I spend so much time feeling angry, bitter. I hate being in this house with its lack of air conditioning. I hate that we're infested with flies. I hate that our pantry and refrigerator is often devoid of simple snacks.

My heart tells me I'm selfish, that others suffer more. My brain tells me that it's logical to feel down when you're struggling. That comparing your struggles to others will get you nowhere. But then my heart speaks up again and reminds me that families are being separated. Children are homeless, without meals. People are risking their lives every day to escape their own, real-life versions of Hell.

It's hard to shake, these feelings of frustration and irritation.

I miss my parents, as insane as that sounds. I feel guilt over missing them, knowing that I could easily pick up the phone and call them. They're not dead, buried somewhere. They're very much alive and would take that phone call, not just willingly but with joy. Things would be better for a bit, then I'd be fucking miserable again. And how would I navigate telling them that their granddaughter now has a girlfriend? That I no longer pretend to even bend to the idea of their God as they see God.

Yet I'm lonely for them. I'm lonely for my brother. I'm lonely for friendship in so many ways. Yes, I have friends and yes I treasure them. Yet something feels like it's lacking.

Masking. It sucks. The resistance to letting others see my true self. I think before I speak almost any and every word. I analyze them in my head before they leave my mouth, to the point of anxiety.  Anxiety that I'm being medicated for but rarely actually feels any better.

I feel unlucky in so many ways. I'm completely unfulfilled here, in this moment. I don't know what will change it. I want to write this story. I want to try my hand at painting. I miss my camera. I miss that creative outlet.

My kids don't really need me any more, certainly not 24/7. I don't really feel a sense of loss here. The exact opposite really; I feel so much freedom. But with them growing there goes the only identity I've had for so long.

I have no idea who I am, what I want, what I'm supposed to be doing. I think of going back to school and the depression and anxiety is immediate. I can't do it. I wasn't built for it.

I think of writing, trying to get published, the rejection that comes into play.

I hate that I spend my life sitting on these couches, typing other people's words out. I hate that I can't handle noise any more; that the sound of the kids playing video games and shouting in their rooms makes me instantly angry. Even the TV lately. I can't handle the sound from the TV. It's hot in here. I could alleviate that problem by turning the fan off but it makes this rattling sound that feels like nails on a chalkboard.

I don't have answers. I don't have solutions. Just so many questions. I was raised to believe that God would set my path for me and that was a lie.

Now I'm here, just floating, not sure where to go or what to do.

I want to travel. I am poor.
I want the simple comfort of Chinese takeout after a bad day. I am poor.
I want parents. I am traumatized.
I wish I could talk to my brother. I am ignored.