I laughed out loud just now. The lake seems to be waking up, though no boats come by. The lake is still a calm mirror painting of the sky, but birds are more vocal. I laughed when the flute-like sound of a bird was cut through with the flat duck quack. I wonder if it’s like that when I speak.
Reading Sylvia Plath’s journal has seemed to reignite my true introspective self that gets stifled when I’m overwhelmed and anxious. The part of me that wants to write. Sylvia seemed to struggle with the societal expectation she should have kids and “make men happy.” I have similar issues. I’m not against having kids, but if I were to assume the role of stay at home wife I fear I would lose myself, smother my soul, and become miserable. It’s difficult to think about giving up some freedom … when due to anxiety and other issues, you’ve never really felt free, and are just starting to. Hard to reconcile that. Maybe having kids isn’t meant for me at all or maybe I can find ways to not feel stifled by traditional norms. I find myself also raging against conventions.
It’s sometimes a disappointment to realize something isn’t meant for you. But it needn’t be– you figured something out for yourself, defining yourself is at least partly what life is about and things can always change. Maybe now just isn’t the right time. You can always reinvent yourself or redefine yourself, but I sometimes find myself weighed down with what I perceive to be societal expectations of me… that I should want to have a kid and give up parts of my newly found freedom (from anxiety). I’m still figuring it out.
Eternal Ocean of Words 