… I do realize that cookies are not actually going to make me less tired anymore than cigarettes and amphetamines made me more productive or vodka made me more relaxed. No amount of alcohol has made me happier or more social, it just dulled the awareness of myself standing in a corner, not smiling quite on que, brain desperately trying to stitch together coherent sentences. So each time I go back to the freezer (where i hide the cookies from my toddler) and get another cookie (actually, two. I always get two), I do know that I am looking for the cookie to resolve more than any cookie can possibly resolve. (which is to say that the cookie cannot chemically time machine me back to last night, take away my 6 month old’s fever and cough, allow me to sleep so that I arrive back at this moment confident, refreshed, motivated by life).
But I am also powerless to resist the cookie. The walk to the fridge, the standing in the fridge’s open door, as if there would magically be different items than last time, the mental smack on the wrist as I take a bite of chocolate chip, this ritual has taken up a buffer space between me and whatever I actually need to think about, such as work, or a story I don’t know how to resolve.
I saw two other wordpress blogs today, one called the unsung mum and another, the title of which I cannot remember, but had a post about white guilt and the oscars. Totally my type of topics. For a moment I thought, hey, wow, we’re so similar. Then, because this is the state of my mind right now, I let this similarity depress me. Look at us, us silly bloggers, thinking we have so much worthy to say. thinking that somehow this blog would, what? give an audience to our thoughts? make us less lonely? because we thought [and this is sad] that keeping a blog would lead to something else? what would that something else be?*
days without sleep, or rather, weeks without sleep, since we are and have been up every hour or so since N fell sick almost two weeks back, are not good times to question why we do anything.
I thought I would celebrate when I got to day 20. But then I saw that today is day 21 of #100DaysOfStories, which is actually not a thing at all, it’s just something I made up from something else which is actually a thing.
*bourgeois hope for something other is likely the saddest, and is definitely the dullest of hopes. Sitting with our political capital, our comfortable homes, our functional relationships. Luckily this blog has no readers and no followers and even i, i suspect, will not revisit these pages.