Notes to Me

I have been told, no, scolded to die to self, consider others as better than myself, serve others, become the last — I get it. But then I don’t get it because I am preoccupied with myself. Life is a series of who am I, where do I belong, what am I doing here, so much I in everything about this life.

Even the reflective what ifs — they are all filtered by this proverbial I. Even if I can recall times of serving others, I was involved. I orchestrated the service; I did the work; I acted on faith.

I felt good this morning, I had slept reasonably well, no bad dreams, no snoring from my beloved. I felt good this morning, but I still didn’t want to get up. I wanted to stay in bed, linger in the slow effort to raise myself up off the pillow, the careful folding back of the perfectly comfortable sheets. I didn’t want to talk; I didn’t even want to shower. I had no problem with my body odor and myself — it was not foul or offensive. I needed to go downstairs and help with the baby — I needed to, but oh yes I wanted to because I love her and I felt needed.

Sometimes I don’t like myself — I know I am needed and sometimes I just want everyone to stop needing me. Forget I exist so I can exist for just a short respite. I don’t want to clean the house; I don’t want to think about dinner; I don’t want to take care of her and be responsible for her every waking moment. I feel smothered sometimes, under everyone else’s beck and call. He asks me all the time, if it is too much. Good grief, yes it is too much. But where would I be without her, without seeing her grow and loving her for whatever time I have left here on earth. Sometimes I don’t like myself; even worse I don’t like that I don’t like myself.