In many ways I’m feeling like a failure, even though in the eyes of the world I’m not. I’m just doing what I have to do. I’m working long ass hours so I can pay rent and keep taking care of my children. This means however that the things I do out of love and compulsion: writing, blogging, poetry, organizing aren’t done, or are done in pedacitos because by the time I get home, or poroto is napping or asleep for the night, all I want to do is lay the fuck down. I have to prioritize what pays my rent, my utilities, my metrocard and food. Health care is a luxury I haven’t had the benefit of in almost three years, even as mujeres in my family get cancer or cancer scares and hey, I’m getting to “that age”.
I have small moments that sustain me. Margaritas, sex toys and cupcakes (oh my) with some amazing sister/mujeres after a reading. Late night phone convos that remind me that I am not alone in how I think and why I do do what I do to the point of exhaustion.
What I think I sacrifice the most is my mental well being. This isn’t sustainable and I need to know how to make it so.