Life is good.

It’s evening.
Wait, it’s almost 10pm. Evening has passed. It’s night.
I’m standing in the kitchen on the dingy beige laminate flooring—well, used to be beige. Now it’s more of a yellowy muddled khaki color. Dog hair and cobwebs are collecting in the corners of the room and I haven’t mopped in weeks.
The dishes stare back at me, dirty and piled on the counter and in the sinks. Yes, both of the sinks.
A small patch of flour dust lies on the counter from my failed attempt at making puff pastry a few days ago. The coffee pot has rings of brown around the top.
I breathe in. I breathe out.
Been a long week.

I can’t put a finger on what triggered my downward spiral, the one that’s led me to overeating, emotional eating, melancholy mood swings, and general lack of motivation.

It might have been my visit to the nutritionist two and a half weeks ago. Didn’t lose as much weight as I thought I had and I had lost muscle mass.

It might have been that I started my own business (excuse me, someone else’s business but I work for them by promoting it). Could be the fact that I’ve never done direct sales and it can be confusing and lonely. I constantly wonder if I’m being a pest to people and if I’m even ‘doing it right.’

Maybe what triggered my decline is having an hour long in depth conversation with my husband about what my goals in life are. To be honest, I have no idea. He asked me what my goals were and I started spouting out my talents and projects. He cut through the steaming pile I laid just like a hot knife piercing butter. My strength melted away and I just stared at the wall. I have no clue what goals I have. No idea why I’m doing what I am. All of my projects started to haunt me and I feel more than overwhelmed by the quantity and unfinished nature of them all.

Maybe being a new mom is finally catching up to me–the lack of social interaction, the constraints of spending all of my time teaching/training/playing with/feeding/tickling/dancing with/kissing/reading to/being with Daphne. Maybe I am realizing “Holy crap, what have I got into? I can teach my daughter the world and I don’t wanna screw it up.”

Maybe this is just a bad day (week) and ‘this too shall pass.’

My perfectionist, detail oriented, obsessive, and ambitious nature catch up to me. Life overwhelms me.

I always knew I was a bit of an introvert. My husband asked me while we were walking the mall “Why do you like to come to the mall if you’re an introvert?”

I had to justify myself that just because I’m an introvert does not mean that I’m socially stunted.

Maybe I’m lacking social interaction…maybe I’ve gotten too much.

I look all around me and I see piles. Dishes piled up. Laundry piled up. Toys on the floor piled up. Bills and junk mail piled up. Heck, even the dogs are piled up on top of pillows.

I have so many piles. My heart feels piled. I have happy moments and memories sandwiched between frustrations and hurts. I feel as if I am piled six inches higher than my 5’3″ stature and the weight is making me buckle and sway. I feel light headed.

Decompress? Maybe. I should. How? I can’t start another project to decompress, as it will just add to the pile.

It’s like everything is just a vicious cycle and for a while I believe that I have broken the cycle only to find out that I’ve moved to a different tier of the cycle–a new gear on a bike, a landing on a staircase ready to scale more stairs, ending one sneeze only to huff and sneeze again.

Life is good. I am thankful.

However, I am overwhelmed.

Feeling helpless when I am overwhelmed is a tough spot in which to be. I prefer to handle situations like this alone…yet…it’s not working. I don’t confide often in people.
I don’t open up to others about my problems or frustrations because I want to be neither a pest nor a complaining person who doesn’t ever fix her problems.

I not only stay mum on my personal issues, but I also stay quiet when it comes to my opinion, or even if I find something funny or incorrect.

I stay quiet because I don’t want to be embarrassed for saying something dumb or having a joke flop. I am prone to make a fool of myself. This is why I live better on paper.

But is that really any way to live? On paper? Free from the embarrassment of telling a bad joke or of speaking up on an issue about which I feel passionate? It’s been easy to be myself online. Easy to say what I feel, to find pictures that describe my emotions perfectly when I can’t show my face, to easily contact friends or family, and easy to be as overtly opinionated as I truly am.

I replay moments in my past when I have not spoken my true feelings or when I have remained silent hiding behind tears and clenched teeth. I recall the moments I lost courage to say what I wanted to say. I mourn the effect those intense moments could have had on me.

Maybe that’s the issue–my disconnect from communicating through my fingers and off of my tongue. The two have very different results.

I suppose the dishes will get done tomorrow and so will the mopping and laundry. The bills probably won’t get sorted and the dogs will continue to shed.

Through it all, Daphne will wake up eager to face the day and I’ll genuinely be thrilled to hold her close and greet the cars with her.
I’ll be happy to cut up banana and yogurt for her to eat throw on the floor.
I’ll talk to her about how things are done, why I do what I do, why the dogs play, and how to pronounce Ash’s name right (“It’s ASHHHH, not ASSSSSS, Daphne”).

The grass is growing green. Mowing time is near.
The chickens have laid eggs that now are chirping little chicks.
I haven’t killed the plants I potted a few days ago.
Life is good.
It is good.


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