Just for me

6/07/2017 Syl's bucketlist 0 Comments



Today I wanted to exchange the wooden living room table with a black one, or maybe even two black ones.
So I put one together, and saw it wasn't the right size for the room.
When I decided for the black, we still had the deep couch standing in the room, but now, with the two chairs, we have more space and the black table seems to be more to be a black spot than a table.

I sat down and suddenly it hit me that I didn't know what to do.
Go through all the effort of exchanging the lot and then take my time to get used to it, or just let it be... hungering to look better.

After 30 years with kids I've been through all stages with the room.
An empty table, very large, so we could put our tea or coffee in the middle and the kids couldn't reach it, so they wouldn't burn themselves, a table full of papers, soft folded flowers and lots of glue, a table full with homework and a vase with flowers taken from the playground and from the side of the road, to what it is now. I don't know the history of all the little dents anymore, or who messed with the hot tea.

A long time it hasn't been my table anymore. They threw all sorts of things on the table, and I tried to claim space back by putting a plant on it, and a kind of fairy garden, and some of my stuff, and more, and a bit more because I would unclutter it the day after, but that day after never seemed to arrive.

I tried to get used to all the things kids in puberty leave in the room, because the room is theirs too, and because I never moaned a lot about it, because it would upset the autistic brother and cloud the day.
I tried to accept it all as a part of life. Even made a good friend accept it, because he felt part of the family too.

But now I'm home alone so often, I feel I'm failing. I don't feel well, and it's like I'm not in my own room. I never fully relax.

I've always been busy for others.
As a small child my mother made me do the chores in the house. Cinderella seemed to be my sister. But the fairy godmother still hasn't arrived, I've still got all my shoes in pairs, and dancing with my prince....will it ever happen. (And will I recognize him? Because the former seemed to be prince appeared to be no prince at all.)
It says something about my grandmother that I didn't mind helping her. But I did, and caring for her changed into caring for the kids.

All those years, almost my whole life, putting others in the center of life, placed attention for me outside the circle.
A few weekends ago a dear friend spent a weekend with me and it was like a dream.

I'm OK with creating a good time for someone else, enjoying it together with someone else.

But just for me....

It's best to break with the past, I feel.
Moving would be so much better than staying here.
But I have to deal with the fact that I can't find something I can afford.

I have to make this room into a place for me.
So I won't feel lost in life anymore.
I need to care a bit better, a bit more just for me.

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