It’s been more than two months since I posted here. And I wasn’t exactly posting regularly before that. It sucks, because I really want to write. Words travel through my head and want to spill out of me, but my brain won’t let them.
You see, for some really fucked up reason, I get these ideas in my head about how things should be: perfect.
And then I obsess about it.
Take writing, something I love, something I’m good at. My mess of a brain tells me that if I don’t sit at a clean desk, with my laptop and a notebook and just the right pen, I’m doing it wrong. If I don’t agonize over each lovely word, and take hours perfecting the flow, I’m doing it wrong. If I tap out something on my phone into the WordPress app, I’m doing it so fucking wrong. That’s not writing. That’s no different than posting a shitacular comment on a funny cat video. It doesn’t count. And if I try to ignore the asshole in my head, the nastiness starts.
“Oh, you think you can call yourself a writer? You can’t even fucking clean your desk so you can sit and write like someone who truly cares about the craft. You have no business trying to write anything.”
So I don’t.
And this affects so many parts of my life. Today, for example, I started to do the dishes. Now, to be honest, I’m not a fan of doing dishes. Or housework in general. But it needs to be done, right?
Except my brain starts to notice every damn thing that’s wrong with the kitchen.
There are crumbs on the counter.
There’s a stack of unopened mail.
The recycling should have gone out two days ago.
The bread hasn’t been put away.
It’s endless. And it’s followed by the asshole, who says, “Oh, you think you’re going to make a dent in this by doing dishes? Don’t make me laugh. You suck. And don’t bother asking for help. This is your job, you’re the stay-at-home mom. What else do you do all day? And you can’t even keep up on the kitchen? You really are the worst kind of wife and mother.”
How do you fight that, when it’s your own asshole brain saying these things to you? That’s one of the reasons I’m still going to therapy. This shit needs to be worked through, because I’d really like to actually like myself someday.
But brain? I turned the tables on you tonight.
I wrote this post on my phone. Take that, motherfucker.