In some ways I’m a very motivated girl. Aside from the torpor. It’s not really conducive to doing stuff, the torpor. It’s all, hey, why not lay on the couch for a while? It’s not like you have anything meaningful to contribute to society. And I’m all, yeah, so? And then I lay on the couch for a while. Except I don’t really, because our couch is a lumpy futon that makes my ass feel like it’s being pummeled by dwarves. I lay on a metaphorical couch. I lay on a couch in my mind.
My to-do list gets longer and longer while my anxiety disorder, not wanting to feel left out, gets somewhat more pronounced. I find myself apologizing for things that a) are just things, like the weather or the fact that I am me and b) are out of my control, or should be. I apologize for everything. Is this entry not what you were expecting? I’m sorry. Am I not reading your mind and responding to your needs and wants before you’ve even had a chance to articulate them? God. Sorry. I suck.
It’s just, you know. Responsibility. In that I feel responsible for every single thing that happens ever. Not So mentioned wanting to have a yard sale to get rid of some of our home-related detritus, and my first reaction was oh my god I can’t be responsible for anything else right now or my head will explode. The funny thing was, I don’t think he was suggesting that I handle it. I just assumed that if it was a thing, I’d have to do it.
When I take a step back and think about everything I’ve accomplished lately, it’s a pretty solid list. New baby? Check. Starting a business? Check. 3.9 GPA? Check. I’ve got the housework mostly ironed out (that’s metaphorical ironing, of course, since I dislike using our actual iron because it actually sucks) and our finances, though meager, are not leaving us foodless or without essential utilities at the end of each month. My kid is insanely clever and learning new things every day (although I suspect that has more to do with him than it does with me) and even the cats are relatively happy, mostly.
But look at it under a microscope. Look at it in terms of the negative. Look at the things I haven’t done, the tests I didn’t ace, the playdates I’ve missed and the fact that we still don’t own a mop. Take a look at my credit score. Observe the fact that I’m flabby and my breasts sag like half-full water balloons and I don’t own clothes (or shoes) that fit me and my hair is unflattering and my diet is abysmal and I have low self-esteem (I am depressed by my low self-esteem! How meta can you get?) and I don’t know for sure if any of my choices are the right ones. Consider that I haven’t done anything with either the novel I’ve finished or the work in progress I abandoned when I got pregnant. Or that I eat things that make me sick, even though I know they’re going to make me sick, just because for that moment they make me feel good.
On a cellular level? I kind of suck.
I wonder what it is about me that makes it so much easier to see the bad than the good. I wonder if it’s something I can change. Because the longer that list gets, the harder I have to try to get out of bed every morning. And when your bed’s on the floor, there’s only so much lower you can go.
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