Breeze is cool today, coming through the window as the sun quietly comes up, shy behind the clouds. The sun leaves the fanfare to the birds, who take up the mantle of proclaiming the morning with vigour.
Rob’s sleeping on the floor next to me. We’re waiting to be able to go to the local farmer’s market, which because of our normal schedule of sleeping and wakefulness, requires us to stay up all night to attend. Squeegee cat stands guard in the window.
I’m trying to let the breeze and the birds and Rob’s gentle breathing lull me into a place of less stress. I keep swearing that I won’t take on more than I can handle, and I fail. In fact, I’ve been a spectacular failure at many things this past year’s worth of time – it started in earnest around July of last year, but fell apart in totality around October, after getting terribly ill at the end of August. I feel like every time I start to get a handle on things, the slippage of the past catches up with me yet again and yanks me back. I’m so tired, y’all. I’m tired of apologies and scrambling to make up for my inadequacies. I’m tired of forcing myself to get up and do things, to move, to even answer emails. I’m tired of being tired all the time.
I have a lot of baggage. I’m still recovering from being sick, and it looks like I might be sliding into early perimenopause, possibly even earlier than my Mom did. I’m deathly afraid of making myself ill with stress again. I just want to function, you know? I want to not struggle so damn much. I want to feel like I can wake up again.
Healing takes so long. And again, I’m sorry for the unhappiness that I cause while I try to achieve it.