Used to Be

Blip, blip, blip.

  I stare at my computer screen, desperately hoping the words for the ideas I need to voice will come to me. The cursor flickers over and over on the blank documents glaringly white background. I suppose staring at the blank screen is better than staring at the writing prompts emailed to me a few days ago. 

How could something so personal, so relatable, be so hard to get out? I snorted, slamming my computer screen. My dogs look up hopeful from their kennels, where I've tucked them away to get five minutes of peace. Guilt stings my insides at their shiny eyes begging to play.

"This is my time," I remind myself, blinding myself again as I open my laptop back up.

 My kids are at their grandparents, and my fiancé is in the garage playing with some new toy he's bought himself. It's just me. Just me and the dogs. Just me and the dogs, and the cats. One of whom just crawled onto the keyboard. I'd lock him up too, but he'd piss on something I'd have to clean up and listen to Chris throw a fit. 

Blip, blip, blip. 

Ugh… This used to come so quickly, torrents of words pouring from my fingers. Words that brought people to tears made them laugh or dumbfounded them with new ideas and perspectives. I wrote essays that were poignant and chalked full of insight. All of it. I used to write all of it. All the time. 

Used to. "Used to" seems to be my life's mantra lately. Used to write, used to draw, used to get good grades, used to be hot. 

I knew I was attractive; I didn't understand why, body dysmorphia and all that. Moreover, I didn't really care. I enjoyed the attention it brought. Granted, I didn't realize why I had so much attention. I thought it was because people liked me and enjoyed being around me. It wasn't, not primarily, anyway. Mostly, it was because they enjoyed looking at me or wanted to get in my pants. But at least I thought they liked me.

I used to win competitions for my art. Teachers used my papers or notes as examples for the rest of the class. I published poems or had other students ask for copies. I used to read so much that my middle school librarian asked me to read some questionable books to see if they were appropriate, with my parent's permission, of course. 

Used to, used to, used to… 

Blip, blip, blip.

Why is this so hard? All I want is to say something special, something that will mean something to someone. Instead,

 I stare at my still blank document. Bella starts to whine from her kennel. I look at the clock; it's been almost twenty minutes. I should pull something to thaw for dinner and get a load of laundry started. I don't even know what we're having for dinner tonight. Chris is supposed to cook on Sundays, but most of the time, he gets too wrapped up in whatever project he's working on in the garage. He just bought those new tools, so I probably won't see him much. Still, it's better than the drinking, so I'll figure something out for dinner. 

"Later. This is my time," I remind myself once again. We rarely use the kennels, and they have nice fluffy beds; the dogs are okay. I can always use the microwave to thaw some burgers or the instant pot for some chicken. I can figure it out later. 

Blip, blip, blip.

I squeeze my legs together and tighten my tummy. My bladder reminded me of just how much coffee I've had while sitting here, waiting for inspiration to strike. My mommy bladder won't wait for "later." 

What is wrong with me? Sighing, I close my computer screen. I might as well start the laundry while I'm up, and it looks like it might storm, so the dogs better get out while they can. 

"I'll come right back to this, though," I promise myself, "maybe, a break would do me some good anyway."

Blip, blip, blip.

I cringe as I open my laptop two days later, stealing a half-hour of alone time while my toddler naps. My teenager huffs offended at my rejection of her company. 

"We'll hang out after your sister's bedtime tonight," I promise her. 

"Yeah, okay," she sulks down the stairs, to her room, with her iPad, gaming laptop, phone, and sixty-eight-inch TV. 

Blip, blip, blip.

I scrub my face, any ounce of creative juice sucked out of me by the vampire of guilt. Maybe, I shouldn't be trying to do this right now anyway. I have a busy day ahead, and it's already half over. 

Patpatpatpat. My youngest daughter comes running from her room. 

"Mommy, I had an accident," Sure enough, she stands bow-legged, dripping on the floor. She couldn't have even been asleep yet. 

"I'm so, so sorry," She doesn't look sorry.

"It's okay, baby," I close my laptop again. "Let's go clean it up."

Blip, blip, blip. 

This time I know that I shouldn't even be trying to write. My toddler is running around, the dogs are barking at the fence, the house is a disaster, and my thirteen-year-old has the TV up so loud I can't even hear myself think. 

I get sucked into the show. Some snarky doctor with a cane and a limp almost killed a patient but still has the cajones to mouth off to his boss. I wish I had that kind of wit.

 I considered being a doctor once, but I've never been that fond of interacting with people. According to this program, that desire is not a requirement. Who knew. I loved research, though. I used to spend hours tucked into textbooks, studying diagrams, just learning new things, and connecting dots. Medical research would have been interesting. I snapped close my laptop again.

Blip, blip, blip. 

Kylene and Daisy are coming over this afternoon to go through some of the craft supplies I'm giving up; Just more failed attempts to create something. We're converting my craft room into a playroom for the kids. I've invested thousands into my supplies, but the space is more valuable than the items. Besides, I never use it anyway. A slight twinge stings the back of my eyes. I shake it off. 

It'll be fun to decorate, plus the kids will love it. I beam at my plans, for my kids, for my family, but not for me.

I open my laptop once more, staring at the screen. My fingers tremble over the keys. What is it people want to hear? What is it I want to say? I don't know. Does it matter? I start my first words:

Blip, blip, blip.