Wilderness

Yesterday I felt like I edged ever near a nervous breakdown.

I had one of those in college, you know, a near-nervous-breakdown and began seeing a shrink and took meds, the whole thing.

My primary fear, always, is I’ll become incapable of raising my son, and there’s no one else to raise him but me, so I don’t give up. Will power, I’ve got it in spades.

Except yesterday I felt fragile and cried in the bathroom at work then came home and just managed to clean up dog shit in the backyard and order a pizza.

Tonight is Thursday. I transmit from a cottage in Republican country. This week has been a long one.

Maybe you’re like me, an over achiever. I try to be good at what’s important to me, and what’s important is being a mother and being a writer. I try to be good at both. Top priorities. Meanwhile, I keep a job to pay the bills and must remain good at that to keep it. I work hard. And customer service can leave little left. Energy, I mean.

Yes,   I’m lucky to have a job when so many people don’t, not to mention I chose customer service. Also, I’m lucky I have arms and legs when there’s so much else to do like picking up dog shit and doing laundry, dishes, and grocery shopping, all the housework.

If life isn’t designed to accommodate a single mother, it certainly isn’t designed to accommodate a single mother writer.

Yes, of course I chose single motherhood. When I was eight weeks pregnant, I knew how my son’s father felt, and that was he wasn’t getting involved. Still, I didn’t want an abortion. I wanted my son. He’s my kid, the love of my life. I chose him.

When I was in graduate school, one of my mentors said single mothers don’t finish novels. He didn’t say single parents. He said single mothers. Perhaps single fathers finish novels at a higher rate. I don’t know. Maybe it was a sexist thing to say. Maybe my mentor knew the second someone told me I couldn’t do something, I’d do it.

Regardless, I’ve proven my mentor’s assertion true so far. I haven’t finished a novel.

Two night ago, I dreamed the actor, Benicio Del Toro, said I needed to suck it up and finish it already, my book. “Baby,” he said. “Confidence.”

Except I don’t lack confidence.

Every afternoon I come home from work, get all my chores done, and then write. It takes will power. It takes running on empty sometimes. If I don’t write every day, I feel like I’ve slipped further away from my dream. What is my dream? What is my purpose in life? What are my goals? The answer to everything is my son, my writing.

When I was in graduate school one of my mentors said, “After this, the only person left in the world who gives a shit if you write is you.”

Jesus, I was tired last night.   I felt defeated. Disillusioned. Fragile. I didn’t write. I barely did anything. I let it go. My son said, “Mom, why don’t you lie down and watch a movie?” So I watched this werewolf movie that made me cry. The movie was called Wilderness and got near some things I’m trying to do with my novel.

The movie asked a profound question: given the choice, what would you rather be, a woman or a wolf?

Last night, I chose wolf. The choice felt empowered, free, fearless, something.

Over pizza,   I shared this decision with my son, and he said, “Oh sure, unless you live in Alaska. Then Sarah Palin lets guys snipe you from helicopters.”

No life is without perils. It’s Thursday night. My son came down the stairs a second ago. “What are you writing, Mom?”

“My column.”

“Okay,” he said. “Good.”