Most of the time I don't dwell on things. Occasionally I'll have a few minutes, a half hour, of thinking -- thinking about my mother, my father, the weird estrangement with my family, thinking about the babies I've lost and the babies I'll never have, thinking about a little black kitten I could not save, the dogs that got old and died, the odd things I've had that vanished somewhere, the love affairs that didn't work, the friends that vanished, the friends that died, the days gone where I didn't do anything, the hours where I couldn't move, the time ahead yawning into the black unknown.
Most of the time I don't think about these things. I have other things to think about. I have other things to do. There's laundry and dishes and ironing. The birds and the cats and the big lumpy dog. My husband who loves me even as we don't understand each other, even when we talk passed each other, even as we stare wondering who is this person to whom we are attached, with whom we are marching along toward the whatever. There are friends I see only rarely, or talk to only on line. There are TV shows and movies and music and books to read and events in the world upon which to ponder and comment. There are weeds needing pulling and plants needing watering, and I really should vacuum. Most of the time I'm thinking about all that.
I've got music to learn. I've got stories to write, edit, polish, write again. I've got jewelry to craft, picking up bright bits of wire and glass and stone to shape into something out of my head. I need to do a lot of things to prepare for other things, all lining up in front of me, waiting for me to to get to them so they, too, can zoom passed.
Most of the time I'm alright. The rain doesn't bother me. Christmas carols don't bother me. Ads for Father's day aren't a problem. Baby diaper ads just aren't an issue. Hearing about someone else's book or record or movie or whatever form success takes is just one more news item. I don't think about why I am or am not special, whether or not this need I have to be noticed without having to jump up and down, waving my arms is ego or normal, if I am somehow ok just as I am, with all that I am or all that I am not. We all do that, I think, to one point or another. I don't want to. I'd like to be noticed just because I exist, whether I deserve it or not, and much of the time I feel like I am quietly sitting in my hole, secret and unknown.
It doesn't bother me most of the time.