In a rut, still digging

Ugh.

So, we were having a convo on one of my bulletin boards about what someone called 'invisible people'. You know, waitresses, cashiers, baggers, etc; folks people tend to ignore.

Fast forward to this morning.

I was doing the morning washing up and, as I sometimes do, dwelling on the fact that I wash the same dishes over and over. Same plates, same glasses, same bowls; sometimes three times a day. Over and over.

And the same clothes. And I sweep the same floors, twice a day; let the dogs out; leave at promptly 12:45 to wait for Boy to get out of school; snacks at the same time; supper at the same time; watch a few minutes of a film; go to bed. Rinse and repeat.

I realised that I feel like one of those invisible people; like a photocopy of a photocopy, blurred and indistinct. I spend all day doing things that anyone could do, contributing nothing unique or valuable, making absolutely no difference in the world.

Heck, aliens could abduct me and replace me with a similar unit and no one would be affected. Are there no pictures of me because I really don't exist?

All the mommy websites, books, and magazines say "take time out to do something for yourself".

Yeah? What? And when?

I used to have a dozen projects going. I haven't gotten to work on an outside project in 6 months; or an inside project in a year (heck, I've got a burgeoning list of basic repairs that desperately need doing). I haven't been to the stock sale in months.

I used to do all sorts of crafts as well as draw and paint. I used to write. All of that's out the window. The crafts require a place to set it up and leave it out safely. And I can't do anything of that sort without uninterrupted quiet anyway or I lose my concentration and it's the opposite of relaxing.

I used to love gardening. I had a wee little garden (in the English sense - mixed flowers, trees, shrubs, and veg) that was just mine but the babies took it over. It's now strewn with plastic toys and beat up here and there.

Still, I stubbornly worked at my garden for a bit. I kept it as tidy as possible and kept replanting. This winter pretty much did it in, though, as the only thing I got time to plant - collards - suffered. I had six gorgeous plants and the gate got left open and the pony ate all of them but one (and smashed my pots and dragged stuff about).

Ditto with my books and collectible junque and furniture. Not that the pony got in and ate them, lol, but that they've been smashed, ripped, scratched, and lost.

I know one is not defined by stuff, but it gives one a sense of accomplishment, of worth, to be able to say "I made that", "I grew that", or "That is my meticulously researched and accumulated antique beer bottle cap collection". If I were to fall over dead right here on my Wacom Tablet, I doubt anyone would say: "Man, she sure got a lot of firewood in and stacked neatly!" or "Jeez, I can see myself in these plates!"

Would anyone even realise I'd croaked until they ran out of clean socks?

Anyway, so this morning, after I washed those same. dishes. again. I went out to get something out of the car and discovered ... the gate standing open and the pony in my garden.

Is it stupid to cry over a collard plant?