Damn. I wish I was a robot🤖

It’s 1:00 pm on a Saturday afternoon and I have come upon some time to myself. My kids spent last night and are spending today with Grandma. While days like these can bring me bolting out of bed with excitement, like a kid running butt naked around the house with a jar full of cookies, today was different. The month of March is a heavy month for me. Six years ago, tragedy struck my little intact family, and we would never be the same. It is hard to believe it was so long ago because every year around this time sends me into an emotional spiral. The intensity of the feelings is like it happened yesterday. I am frustrated by that fact, which in turn gives me more of an anxious disposition. It’s as if something is broken in me because I am not over it yet.

This morning, my oversized comforter felt like vines wrapping around the start of the day, forcing me to stay. There was no one to feed breakfast to or get out the door. No one to show up for. It was only me. I gave myself permission to rest for as long as my mind would let me. Surprisingly, I made it to 10:00 am. I may have laid there longer but I was starting to get hungry, and my head was pounding for that morning coffee. Fast forward a few hours of shuffling bare foot around the house, flannel pj pants, t-shirt, and wild hair; I had been avoiding eye contact with that sink full of dishes so naturally I knew it was time to write. I like to zen out with an actual journal with pages and crazy enough hand write my thoughts. I have so many journals, I like to just grab whatever one is laying around the house. No plan, nothing that says I have to categorize my writing or write something specific, just wing it and go.

Except today, it was going nowhere. Scribbles, one word, scratch it out. Stupid pen ran out of ink, and I hadn’t even begun. I started to feel anxious that I was not going to get all this emotional overflow out. I scrambled through 1 of 3 of our junk drawers. I know 3 may be excessive but hey that’s one less than the number of kids I have, so I feel like I’m still ahead. All I could find was a freaking pencil. I shuffled back to the journal and mostly empty page that was basically laughing at my inability to fill it. Fifteen minutes goes by and nothin’. I decided to get basic, really basic. Pulling from my skills as a youth, I drew a circle. Before I knew it, there was a whole stick figure with what looked like shoes and some very wild hair. Yep, I thought. This must be me; I drew in the face with a side frown.

I drew a thought bubble and wrote the words “my trauma makes me unworthy”. I sat with that for a few minutes. That was an honest thought. A feeling that I wrestle with. I kept going.

Bubble: I need to hide my limitations. Bubble: I have to look like I’ve got things together. Bubble: Only parts of me have value. Bubble: My body needs to be perfect- I need to be perfect. Bubble: What I have to offer doesn’t measure up. Bubble: I need to be all things to my loved ones. (this one was more about disappointing or letting down the ones I love by not meeting their needs).

Bubble…bubble…bubble…and my writers block was popped. I looked at my picture that was in fact reminiscent of the level of artwork I produced in my youth. The statements are reminiscent of beliefs I have carried with me for years. Some longer than others, and a few that have been exasperated by what life has served me with. I paused and tears of relief dropped to the page. God, it feels good to acknowledge and admit to myself.

Wiping my eyes for a clearer view, I looked at my drawing again. The picture took on a new perspective for me. What was this stick figure really hoping for? All these thought bubbles gave me permission to feel human, but this stick figure was clearly frustrated by these thoughts. Maybe she was hoping she would not have them at all. Take them away, get rid of her trauma, her limitations, her imperfection. Create her to never disappoint, to meet every expectation and have absolutely everything 100% together. That’s when I scribbled the words…

Damn. I wish I was a robot. Hated Human.

It was powerful. Releasing me. These were my thought bubbles, she was me, a stick figure me that hated her humanity.

I know this, there will be many more thought bubbles, more that I have yet to even admit to myself, let alone draw them attached to little Miss Stick Figure. Acknowledging these beliefs won’t necessarily make them go away, but reminding myself that I started out a human, and I am indeed still a human. Subconsciously wishing I could be a robot strips me down to a one-dimensional way of viewing life and all of my experiences, including my trauma. My final thought is to the bubble that says, “my trauma makes me unworthy.” Unworthy for what? If my trauma makes me unworthy to be a robot, then I am absolutely ok with that.

May you spend the rest of your weekend in the least robotic way possible, with stick figures and thought bubbles to remind you that your human. 🌻