Carrie on

The Pull from a blog entitled, "Why I write" November 2011 If you haven’t felt it for yourself, I’m not sure that you can fully understand. Its presence is not unlike a sixth sense. An unexplained yet apparent awareness of things that simply occurs, sometimes. It’s like that, in the sense that it is temporary, fleeting, and impossible to predict. But, it is also more than that. If you’ve never felt it, you might relate if I connect it to the feeling that comes with seeing someone whom you love…unexpectedly, across the room. You glance, and there that person is. Did you feel it? That leap? That flutter? That momentary discombobulation and uneasiness until your mind has time to process that this occurrence is in fact welcome and in fact good. That, that is the feeling, sort of. 

Competition isn't in my nature. I don't know why. I just wasn't made that way. Still, I can appreciate a battle of wills or wits like the one I had today. I am opinionated, and I'm intensely passionate about certain things—like the welfare of my children, good food, and writing. I'm a country girl, and one thing I don't sit still and quiet about is the fact that I do NOT like living in town.  I don't dislike town, I just don't like living within its boundaries (especially because it means I'm double taxed twice a year.) I don't like having neighbors, and I don't like that my road becomes a superhighway every time there's a ball game. I don't care if that makes anyone else mad—they don't live here to experience it. I'm reminded of the chicken trucks that roared like banshees through the night around the curve, past my childhood home, down the hill, over my favorite cats and dog….Now, multitasking, overworked parents wit...

I’m negative. It’s true. You probably don’t know that, unless you’ve lived with me. Who I am outside my house isn’t fake, it is just exhausting. Draining. So when I’m home, when I’m with the people who I live for, who I love more than life, I’m terrible, cantankerous. It’s true. It’s embarrassing. I’m intolerable, and I know it, and although I know it and although I bite my tongue and tell myself that it is wrong, I remain cranky. I snap, and were I a lower animal, I probably would bite.   I lash out with words and tone in nastiness so detestable, I can’t stand myself.   My children are more precious than any analogy I could insert here, and yet, when my temper has bubbled to full height (and it does) I explode in loud torrential spurts of vengeful language. I say things that under circumstances less tense would curl my fingers into protective fists. Things for which I would scold other tongues. I hear myself and can’t at times believe that such things could be said....

I need an Airhead. That’s not to trivialize the situation. I just seem to think more rationally with unnecessary sugar. Or salt. But I ate a whole bag of popcorn last night. I’m not going to get up anyway. I know that if I do I’ll lose my chance, and oh how I need you tonight.

It’s one of those (THOSE) days. I’m ready for bed, and we haven’t even eaten dinner yet. If it were just me, I’d skip it. It isn’t just me, so dinner’s in the oven. Sounds are louder than usual and seem to reverberate inside my skull. The pollen count is exponential even though it’s only February. The kids are bouncin’ and fussin’ like ‘possums in a live trap, and I have a headache. Really, everyone’s talking at once except for me, because I don’t feel like talking. I don’t feel like listening either, but it’s my job so I grin and grit, my teeth. That only sounds harsh if you don’t have your own children, or if you have one child but not two, or if you have more than one child but a living room bigger than a toll booth. In truth, our living room is a fine size for a family of four, but not when the sound is bigger than the space it can fill….Lord, help me Jesus.

“All we are, we are.” Matt Nathanson Internal conflict: a struggle inside one’s self involving thoughts, feelings, or emotions. Or all of the above. External conflict: a struggle between one and an outside force. So what is it if you feel at conflict with the world itself? Exhale. That’s hyperbole. I don’t know the whole world, and some people actually like me, so that statement isn’t actually true at all, but feelings don’t care much about truth, do they? Sometimes my feelings feel separate from me. Separate from my mind, my rational mind. My mind that is driven by something even deeper than rational thought…my intrinsic mind—my subconscious primeval self that says, “You will ensure that your young survive. You will supply food, shelter, security. You will bare your teeth to protect your children. To protect your family.” These parts, the inside or outside of my conscious self, the motherfighterwarriorproviderstandupandbiteorscreamifyoumust and the loveexplodeserruptsseep...

There's no room to stretch or adjust. I'm not even certain there's furniture to sit on. The teevee has dials that clunk clunk clunk and a smooth one too that adjusts the picture. This isn't cable, and if the wind blows too hard, we won't get to watch anything until Daddy can get back on the roof. Dallas is on, hot air popcorn and coca colas on the TV room floor. We watched Dallas every Friday night. I think it was Friday; maybe it was Saturday....whichever day, or night, our family watched together. Every week. I must have been young, and I can't believe my parents even allowed us to witness the exploits of J.R. Ewing, but they did, and we did, and we loved it. Every week there were warnings and there were threats. "Okay. If you can't be quiet, you're going out." "Now be quiet, commercials are over. Watch that drink!" "I can't hear." "Make her be quiet!" "STOP ASKING QUESTIONS AND JUST WATCH!...