Showing up

The hardest thing for me is showing up. Not for my kids. I'll show up for my kids every day of the week. When I have a rare moment in which I am unable to be present for my kids when they want my attention, I sink into a shame spiral. But showing up for me, that part is hard. 

The past two years, the pandemic, have given me more excuses than I needed to sink into my couch and not try too hard at anything, not do anything but survive. It wasn't a time for growth or accomplishment and honestly I took that further than I probably needed to. My depression is the variety that includes a complete lack of motivation, and it and I and the world were in so much agreement, that I just let it run the show. 

But now I want to stop. 

I want to stop stopping? I don't know. I want to show up for myself. To do things that I think are important. To make things. To be someone other than just the person who gets dinner on the table and makes sure homework is done. To actually be a human being with wants and needs and accomplishments. I want to feel happy and proud at the end of every day instead of just feeling done. 

I don't even know where to begin. Except I guess that's not true. I've always known where to begin. Pen to paper is where to begin, and it's scary as hell. Glennon Doyle says that the only way to be a writer is to write, that she's tried all the other possible ways. Damn it. 

So here I am. Showing up. Babbling away. Being real, even if real is as boring as I fear that it is. Putting myself back out into the world, in a way, and trying to remember who I am at the same time. 

It's a beginning.