I look around me and notice the amount of people who have such passion for something – anything in their lives. Writing. Art. Crafts. Gardening. Spiritual pursuits. Fashion. Comics. I see them being all passionate and inspiring and think to myself “I want to be like that. Passionate. I’m not. What’s wrong with me?”
I’m not. Perhaps I once was but it seems so long ago I’ve forgotten what it feels like. Some are probably reading this and thinking but she’s an artist – she’s passionate about that right?
Truth is it’s gone. All of it. My creativity. My skill. My drive. The thing is, did I ever really have it to begin with or am I just really good at faking it?
I’m a great startist. I’ll start some kind of hobby with gusto, doing my research, buying the right materials and for a little while I’ll enjoy it. Then I’ll put it down and NEVER TOUCH IT AGAIN. My house is full of started projects – knitting, scrapbooking, painting, markers, picture frames, beading etc…
Even this blog I start and stop in spurts. I can’t seem to decide which way it’s supposed to go. Is it a mommy blog? Isn’t it? Do people care?
I’ve jumped spiritual ships so many times my bookshelf looks like a mish-mash of every pagan religion ever.
This isn’t something that happened when I became a mom. This has been going on for years and years and years. Some days I wonder if I’m even alive inside anymore. There just seems to be…nothing there.
I envy people their spark. Their life. Their passion.
I’m a good mom. I can say that. But I feel empty the rest of the time. Empty and stupid and uninteresting.
I don’t feel I’m the person I’m supposed to be.