When three of my last four blog posts are labeled "I'm breaking down", might that be a clue of some sort? Yes?...
It's amazing how therapeutic a good (self-inflicted) smack between the eyes can be. I've been crabby, snappish, tired, anxious and tense for weeks now, but haven't really been consciously admitting to it (much) or examining it.
At dinner after a very busy Saturday this weekend when the kids decided they'd like to go to a haunted house that evening, I just didn't have the ooomph. It is VERY difficult for me to release myself from what I feel are family obligations, though, so I gave Michael the squinchy-face which is code for "Do I have to?" and said that I was really hoping to have time to exercise that evening. Michael read between the lines and gave me the permission that I have trouble bestowing on myself, bless him.
As the kids were thumping around filling the dishwasher and finding shoes and generally filling every cranny of psychic space around me, I sat on the sun room couch and tried to just breathe until they'd all left. Michael saw me in this uncharacteristically static state, and asked "Are you okay?" I didn't think or hesitate or breathe before answering "No, I'm not okay. I haven't been okay for weeks."
Everyone finally piled out of the house and I sat alone with Theo and had a most excellent cry. And then did, indeed, get my exercise.
This is real life, of course, so it would be a lie to say that now everything is fairies and rainbows and unicorns. I did feel a bit better yesterday, though, and not only managed to get the vegetable patch tucked in for winter, I also dragged out and set up my cold frame over the Swiss chard. My mojo is still seriously compromised, but it's less scary now than it was.
And there's this to look forward to. My, that's a pretty big gun.