I'm Not Good at Life (Part 1)

I've always been honest on this blog. I want this to be a reflection of me, broken, imperfect, silly. I write about things I like and things that have happened to me. I write for me. I write because if I don't, I feel weird.

Today I'm writing to say that I suck at life. 

I'm just not good at it. 

I don't like dealing with things. I'd rather do anything else than deal with anything. Does that make sense? I often shame myself into accomplishing tasks that other people do without thinking. Like... Laundry. Sure, no one likes doing laundry and if they do, well. Poor them. I see laundry and I get overwhelmed. I get anxious. I'll do it tomorrow, I say to myself. 

Original Artwork Via

Tomorrow comes and I see the laundry and I know I need to do it. I can recognize this. I know I have nothing to wear to work the next day. I know I am wearing the last pair of underpants I have, you know, the ones with the holes that are the backups of the back-up backups. The ones where, if I got in a car accident and died, these would be the last pair of underwear I would want to be wearing when they take my body to the morgue. Yet? The next day I wake up, curse myself that I didn't do the laundry and either go commando or I find a pair of underwear that I've had since high school and no matter how much I yank and pull they just do. not. fit. 

I go to work and chide myself, I need to be better! Do better! Look at my coworkers. I bet they are wearing underwear. I bet they do laundry on a regular basis. I bet they didn't pick up the shirt from the pile by the bed, smell it and figure, eh. good enough. All throughout work I'm like yes! I'm going to go home and organize my life. I can't live this way! Except when I get home I eat a taco and there is a whole lot of nope-ing happening. 

Nope, I'm not doing laundry tonight. I'm tired. Nope, I'm not cleaning up my make-up area. Nope, I'm not fixing the pillows on the couch. Nope, I'm not vacuuming or dusting.  I'm just going to stay here, in the dark, and try not to move. Or do anything. 

Unless it's fun. Oh! People want to meet up for dinner? YES. My sister wants us to stop by for a game night? Count me in! Date night? Sure! Target run? Please. I'm already in the car.

This, I've concluded, is not normal. We are gone from home more nights than we are home. We do anything we can to not be at home. Why? Because our house sucks. No one has vacuumed or dusted or done laundry or fixed the pillows on the couch in ages.

I believe this is part of the reason why I even stopped writing. I can't be creative in a house where every corner has a project or a pile. I can't use my imagination to create another world when I'm busy imagining that pile of laundry isn't in the middle of the bedroom floor.

I need to change it. I want to change it. Yet I don't. I can't handle it all. I can't work for eight hours and then come home and scrub toilets. I can't work every day of the week and then spend all weekend pulling weeds. 

It's suffocating.

Today, as Bryan and I were cleaning our bedroom I told him, I feel like I could be the kind of woman that just disappears. That walks away from it all and leaves everything behind. Bryan asked me, "Wouldn't you miss Shepherd too much?" Yes. I would. I don't think I could ever do it, really, because of the damage it would do to him. 

But that doesn't stop me from imagining the freedom I would feel as I ran. And that makes me feel like maybe... just maybe, there is something truly wrong with me.