"Are you the nurse?"
"No. I'm the granddaughter."
"Oh, you should be a nurse."
I wish people would stop telling me this. It's not the compliment you think it is. The truth is I have dreams and ambitions that have nothing to do with the skills I've acquired in the last year or so. But people don't think that way. They don't see me and, what's more, they don't care.
Truthfully, I'm wasting my arts education on dance classes I can't even attend for their full duration and sad Broadway sing-a-longs while preparing big family meals alone. I can't even hold the final notes. I could if I practiced my breathing techniques, taught to me years ago by skilled and wise instructors, lessons that I paid for, but the only breathing technique I practice lately is deep breathing to settle myself in an emotional storm.
I know what I need to do to get better but here I am actively not doing them. A therapist years ago wondered if I set myself up for failure by not applying myself so if I failed, I could say "Oh, well I didn't really try." Fear of failure causing my failings.
This could be limiting me now, but I'm also so burned out that I can't imagine taking time for my art. Oh, wait, yes I can. It looked like going to dance class for the first time in years. It's always for the first time in years for me with dance. I'm getting better, but I need the practice. Only I don't practice my art. I only attended half the dance classes I sign up for and I haven't truly practiced my singing with regularity since before the pandemic.
I do what I need to do to get by. I learned wound care and Norco schedules out of necessity. I became proficient at changing adult diapers, and fast, because it was required of me.
But the things I adore.
The things that make me feel alive.
I barely make time for.
Today was a lot. Who puts Halloween on a Sunday? Regular caregiver called in sick and the agency took a long time and some failed attempts to replace her. Normal coverage? 8am. Today's start? 2:30pm. I feel so out of it. Constantly having to remind myself to eat and force myself when I do. I took lunch into my grandmother's room today and when she asked me what I have I told her to leave me alone. I get in moods too, but she barely notices when I feel off. My eyes could water, as they did today, and she wouldn't notice. Not that she could do anything if she did. Her days of caring for me are up. It's my "turn" whatever that means.
I feel like all my things smell like pee. Nothing can cleanse me from Nana's urine. My vision plays tricks on me. I see creepy crawly black lines out of the corners of my eyes. Breathing is strained, my chest feels so heavy at times.
Is this grief? Is this depression? Is this my own decline?
How do you live this life day in and day out? Does it get better? Does it get worse? Or is it simply just how it is? Someone told me I won't regret doing this. Another thing I wish people would stop telling me. Or that this is "noble". Just stop. The correct thing to do is tell me "It's hard, it sucks. I'm here for you and here's an Ike's sandwich on Dutch Crunch Roll." I need to be fed.
A friend told me I can go back to the arts at any time, but the truth is I'll never be a Broadway star. I don't have the time to become great and no one will take a chance on a girl like me (I say as a 31 year old, I feel like my maturity is stuck in adolescence and I think my bedroom would back me up). But in my heart of hearts, I feel like I could be a Jenna Hunterson, a Carole King, even a Fanny Brice. Hurt leads, not the best friend. Maybe in another life. A life I'm not currently living. I wish I had a chance, but what I wish even more is that I wish that I would actually take that chance if it was presented to me.
But off I go fixated on another delusion. But which one's worse? Hers or mine?
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