I have so many things running through my brain this morning but I'm afraid it's because I put an extra scoop of coffee in my Mr. Coffee happy machine today. I'm running on too many cylinders which quite frankly scares the crap out of me. In two hours I'll have a melt down and that's never a pretty prospect. I better pull out the vacuum while I have this burst of energy which leads nicely into today's blog...
Yesterday I was a cleaning machine. By 11:30am downstairs was picked up and sparkling. It wasn't thoroughly perfect by my standards but it looked good. When I headed upstairs and stared into William's room, I was done. My brain just shut down. It wasn't that it was disgusting, he's fifteen after all, but I do insist that the boys pick up their rooms and make their beds in the mornings. Normally I go through and straighten things up, spray with some sort of deodorizer, wipe down the bathrooms, and focus on one major task for the day. But yesterday, no way. Instead, my depression kicked into full gear. I made myself a bowl of popcorn and shut myself away in my bedroom. I sat for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening watching re-runs of the TV show, "Hoarding: Buried Alive".
It's so hard to explain, even for people who know me, that I base my self worth on what I can and can't accomplish. To me, my house is a reflection of who I am and it/I will never be perfect. It frustrates and it hurts and it infuriates me. I see tiny details when I stare at things and feel so overwhelmed. I think, "I can't fix that." or "How can I keep up on everything? Every time I turn around it's filthy again." So when I walked up the stairs, I didn't just see things to pick up. I saw scratch marks on the banister, a fire alarm that needed to be replaced, and cobwebs in the heating vent that I couldn't reach. Nothing will ever be right. My goodness, I just put 44 years of therapy into one paragraph.
So yesterday, I hid in my bedroom's sitting area watching television and trying to piece together in my brain that no, I don't keep 50 animals in my house and that the smell where my dogs have had past potty training accidents can't be as awful as some of those homes. That no, I don't have mouse droppings or cockroach infestations throughout my kitchen. That my 10 or 12 pairs of shoes do not, by any means, qualify as hoarding.
I'm not as crazy as I sound. Or am I? Today I'm good, or at least I will be until this fifth scoop of coffee, the two chocolate brownies, and the chocolate protein shake continue to do their job. When everything starts to wear off and I feel the compulsion to crawl back into my cocoon, I always have my reruns to cheer me up again. I'm ok. My sideboards can be dirty and I have to remember that William's room will always smell bad, after all - he is a teenager and teenagers do smell bad right, right?