It's all in my head and then I sit down at the computer or with a blank sheet of paper in front of me and suddenly none of it is right. Suddenly I have to have something to SAY. There must be a MESSAGE behind the words. It's all very exhausting.
I can't just talk about my gray roots or that I have become obsessed (in my mind) with attempting to fill my freezer just in case of Doomsday thankyouverymuchNationalGeographicChannel. And honestly, I am not really very good at being a Doomsday Prepper and filling my freezer. Right now it is stocked with dinner rolls that I got on some fantastic sale around Christmas-time. I could fill the Post-Apocalyptic bread baskets like a hundred times. You are welcome, World.
I can't talk about the butterfly napkin holder I got at a thrift store that is sitting on my kitchen table with the sad $1 price tag still on it. I bought it with the intention of sanding it down a bit. Painting it. Making it kitschy and utterly fantastic. But I went to buy sandpaper and there are all these CHOICES. And it is really hard to look at the dude at Home Depot and say with a straight face "I'm working on a refinishing project of a 1970s-era plywood napkin holder. What would be the correct sandpaper to use to retain its rustic charm?" So now it just sits and mocks me and I am about 10 seconds from puffy-painting its ass and calling it a day.
And I can't talk about the anxiety that grips my brain so hard and so suddenly that it takes my breath away. That it makes it hard to leave the house. That making a phone call to order a pizza actually hurts. That makes it so that talking to anyone- even those I know well- becomes terrifying. That makes writing anything impossible.
Self made prisons are the most confining.
But today I actually got up and got dressed. I got up and got dressed like I do every day, but today I did it without feeling like throwing up.
I'm counting it as a win.
(Even though the Anxiety-Bitch in my head says that you all are totally making fun of my shirt behind my back.)