My food is horrible. I played hooky from WW this week, because I didn’t want to see the results.
I feel anxiety simmering inside of my body like a hot stew.
I’ve been cleaning my house like a madwoman. When I say “cleaning,” I’m not necessarily talking about scrubbing the tile floor with a toothbrush, although I did that last week, too. I’m talking about trying to find a home for all of the things lying around, letting go of things that are better off in the dumpster, and sorting through the piles and piles of papers that have been stuffed in various places around the house. I’m talking about repairing my son’s broken treasure with gorilla glue, finally, and looking over my girls’ shoulders as they weed through their over-stuffed room to find things to donate to others or throw away. I’m talking about cleaning out underneath my bed and finding a letter I wrote in 1997 to Mr. Nice Guy on a barf bag while I was stuck on a delayed flight with two babies after a visit with my dysfunctional family.
The physical exertion is really nothing compared to the emotional strain of delving into my past, both recent and long ago, and facing the things I have been unable to do for myself and my kids for such a long, long time.