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A Rambling Mom - Prologue 2 |
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(TW: depression, imposter syndrome)
The intense rush of blood to her fingers was sudden, frighting, and exciting in ways Erica had never thought she’d feel again. Her limber fingers flying across a keyboard almost effortlessly punching away. What words would come scrolling across the lines and lines of texts that came pouring out of her head and into those swift moving fingertips? Would it be the high fantasy novel she was desperate to finish? Or maybe she would finally get some decent scripting for her blog? No, it would be neither of those things. It would simply be everything you are reading right now.
Trite and dull like the life she was regularly leading. Endless rambling that went nowhere, and yet she was determined to capture some kind of magic. Some sense of completion in the monotony of it all. She should have been washing the mountains of dishes in the sink. Her time would have been better spent clearing off the kitchen table so that they could eat there as a family again instead of sitting on the bed and hovering over carefully balanced TV trays.
This isn’t your job, the intrusive thought pounded into her brain, How unmother-like of you. Why are you bothering with this drivel? It's not like you’re going to do anything with it. You’re not going anywhere. No one will ever read this.
Erica was acutely aware of these things. She didn’t disagree with them. Every thought punctured her, ripping through her with an icy cold chill that brought her back to her place. About to be thirty-two, living in a basement, jobless, no prospects. Each of these things is carefully chosen and curated in order to raise a family. Their financial burdens significantly lessened, each year they moved closer and closer to the things they were striving for as a family. Still, she felt the crushing weight of being left behind on her slumping spine.
So, why did she type? What was the point? Could she, or anyone for that matter, make anything from this incessant rambling? Perhaps she could slap a slice-of-life label on it and publish it. Someone might relate to it. Make fun of it. Ignore it.
“At least I would be seen,” rolled off of her tongue, “At least someone other than my children and husband would know that I exist.”
IMPOSTER.
Her hands froze. Trembling fingers pulled away from the lettered keys.
UNMOTHER-LIKE.
The bravery drained away from her, leaving behind a pallid white complexion illuminated by screen light.
SELFISH.
Small streams of tears glided over her cheeks. She could feel them following the lines of her face to her jaw line before dripping off the edge of her chin. Within her subconscious she could almost picture something like an inhuman grin coming from that back part of her mind. Doubt had won. It sunk its teeth into the flesh of her mind and spoke with a mouth full of her passion.
If you were truly meant for this you would have done it sooner. Your mid-thirties are quickly approaching and you haven’t grown out of this yet? How sad for you. Chasing dreams you’ve had since you were thirteen. Grow up.
Erica had. She had grown up a long time ago, through a series of bad choices, and in doing so missed out on a lot of opportunities to just be herself. Doubt was right. If she had truly wanted to be a writer alongside all the other goals she was working toward now then she should have worked harder earlier. Had she not been so spineless, and let other people’s doubts cloud her judgements, she might have taken her cake and eaten it too. “Now,” felt a whole lot like, “too late,” and the futility of it was killing her.
All this rambling typing… it’s just your version of a midlife crisis. Doubt continued, It would be better if you closed the laptop and tossed out those old notes and scraps you’ve been saving. Looking at them will only hurt you more, you know.
“My notes?” her reddened eyes rolled toward her side, gaze misting over a scribbled on Target bargain shelf. Inside of three of those drawers was at least fifteen years worth of inspiration collected and cultivated. Some of them were short stories and half finished novels in their third or forth draft phases. Sketches of characters with more ramblings about personality traits and goals of their own that she had once wanted to bring to life. Maps of places she would never go to but had always wanted to take people to.
Inspiration is nothing without action.
“I could make something from them,” she found herself pleading with her thoughts.
You don’t act. You wander. You forget. You lose.
A scream Erica didn’t recognize flooded the air. The sound was a gurgling mess of animal-like cries and choked on sobs. It was only when she felt the stab of air against the inside of her lungs and the heat of anger on her cheeks, that she realized it had come from her. Her heart raced, beating wildly in her chest as if it were trying to out pace the damage that had caused it to start breaking. She had wanted to fight it. She had wanted to be rescued by some intense and sudden sense of inspiration that would cause her to pick up her ideas and complete them.
But in real life, no one comes to rescue you.
“No one comes to rescue me,” she repeated to herself and closed the laptop once more, with the same dissatisfied click that ended the night before.
 Aage Raghnall · Sat Jan 20, 2024 @ 04:30pm · 0 Comments |
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