...time out (in)...

The house is quiet.
Nothing but the ticking clock and the clicking keys.

I'm home...alone...for a brief moment while 'the boys' are out.
A rarity.
Nay, an impossibility.
I can count the hours of alone time I've had in recent years on one hand.

I don't know what to do with myself.

I'm avoiding the toys strewn on the floor, and the kitchen mess, and the ever-growing list of chores. I've stepped over the toys gingerly and blinkered my eyes to the counter in my periphery.  I'm avoiding it all...because if I gave in to that urge to clean and tidy and fix, I'd still be serving them...not myself.  And they'd arrive home to the same exhausted, touched-out, drained version of me that I've become of late.

But I don't know what to do with myself.
I don't know what to do for myself.
I've fallen out of the habit of time out.

So I opened this page...the blank white expanse in a dimly lit room...just enough to force my focus.

But what to write?

What to think about?

What's left of me that isn't someone else's person?

I'm spread thin...which is funny, as I'm the heaviest I've ever been.

(Perhaps I should be using this time to cycle and burn this me back into the shape the old one had?)  

I don't know how to say no...or how not to give 100%...or how to delegate to someone else.

So I'm spread thin.

And everyone is getting less and less of me...as I slowly wear down to nothing.

~~~

That wasn't where I thought we were going, there.

Let's wrangle these words back together.

~~~

The house is quiet and I've an hour or so to...

do???

What, exactly?

There's nothing that's just mine...just me...anymore.

Old habits...old hobbies...old daydreams...

They've been naught but cinder for years now.

I spent the first few minutes of my "time out" picking things up and prepping to clean.

Then, I startled into the realization that I shouldn't do any of that...not now, not with this precious 'one time only' opportunity.

So here I sit....fingers flying...mind...ummm...blank?

I don't know who to be if I'm not theirs.

I've spent so long postponing...myself...that I can't remember what she likes.

~~~

Is this part of the healing?

It feels more like depression.  Situational depression. Nothing permanent or chemical.  Just...the ebb that comes with the flow.  The emptiness of pouring everything out into others.

~~~

I've reasoned my way out of every notion that's flickered through my subconscious.

You're sleep-deprived. Take a nap! /Can't...won't be able to sleep tonight if I do.

You could take a long, hot shower!/Nah, waste of water.

Watch something? / I'm not current on anything current.

Read! / Um...the only books here are Henri's.

So here I sit...filling space and taking time.

Not very well.

Not in a way worthy of the occasion and the rarity.

Not with the fanfare and fun of "time out...in".

Just...here...

Here, on this page, where my mind unspools through my fingers and leaves a trail of words behind.

Perhaps I should have gone with the cycling, instead...