I hate April Fools Day. I spend a lot of time actively avoiding looking foolish, and here is a day whose sole intention is to make me look like an idiot. No thanks. It’s not going to be pretty if someone puts a box of donuts in the workroom that actually contains carrots.
My relationship status with nostalgia apps like Timehop and Facebook’s On This Day is, “it’s complicated.”
My particular brand of anxiety likes to zero on a fear of being misunderstood or saying things incorrectly with no way to amend. The OCD part of my brain will (un)happily explain, correct, and fix these mistakes repeatedly in my head while the more rational piece tries to let go. The inside of my skull is a big cartoon dust cloud with random arms and legs flying around as I fight with myself. It’s friends with the part of me that is terrified I’m not very good at things, and they both interact with the piece that sees complements as just climbing higher up the edge of a cliff.
Hi. I’m new here.
That’s the only explanation I can find for why I had no baby wipes in my car; okay, that’s an exaggeration, I had two wipes and they were both dry. I went to get Rowan out of his seat and he was sitting in a pile of poop. All over his seat, his legs, and his clothes. Did I mention I was standing in the street outside of Lorelei’s school? Because yeah.
Remember how I got all empowered by my own selfishness and self preservation last week? I proclaimed my lack of fucks to give. I reclaimed my rope! I cleaned and organized and made sense of the chaos.
I’m happy. That’s an unexpected feeling these days. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not constantly sad, I don’t think I’m depressed, and I’m not Rhiannon-downer. What I am is overwhelmed, at the end of my rope, and generally one step away from the edge of done. I’m drowning in that sea of obligation, and not doing anything particularly well.