Frustration is a constant companion of mine these days.
I have a bad habit of neglecting to take care of myself once I start to feel ok, and then crashing again. I’m too hyper to settle into anything, so I do something active. Clean the kitchen. Clean the lounge. Do some washing. And I’m so sick of doing these monotonous, repetitive tasks that by the end of the day, I can’t even stand being in my house anymore. I have to go outside where I can’t see those four walls, covered in dried Weetbix and pencil scrawls. Everything I see is something I have cleaned or failed to clean.
And I keep telling myself, there’s more to life than dishcloths and vacuum cleaners. But if I don’t clean, we live in squalor. How much am I going to enjoy my life if the dishes go mouldy and the wet clothes turn musty and I keep stepping on wet, cold bits of chewed-up apple?
I try to write lists, to help myself focus. I want to tear up my lists and throw my phone across the room. I’m frustrated, and impatient, and aggressive. I have no chill. I cannot sit still. I can’t relax and be zen and enjoy the moment. I stare at my to-do list or my pet project list and the words jump around inside my brain. Avoiding my comprehension. I’ve read them but I can’t hold on to them.
I feel fuzzy-headed and exhausted and wired-up and reckless. Taking risks. Being careless with myself, with my kids.
If I could just get some silence. Just a bit. Then I could figure things out. Make sense of everything. But my kids make it hard and my brain makes it harder.
Trying to quiet a restless mind as turbulent as the hurricane that rips through a city. But I can’t, because I’m in a tailspin. I can’t see the storm for the clouds.