Lately my mental capacity has been hanging on by a thread. I feel drained. Tired. My nerves? Shot.
These past four months have been heavy; hanging over my head like a cloud of worry and anxiety I can’t quite shake. I’m up all hours of the night, restless yet exhausted. My routine? Gone. Exercise? Non existent. Food? My coping mechanism.
Last week it all came to a head.
Like a roadblock with absolutely no detour. I stood at the counter spoonfuls deep in a pint of ice cream fighting back tears asking myself, “when?” When is it going to end? The uneasiness and uncertainty. The noise and the chaos.
How much more? How much more can I take? How much longer without connection; without people? How much longer can I fake that everything is alright when on the inside I’m a mess?
I’ve been head down feet to the pavement, going non-stop since this all started. I can’t tell you what day it is, but I can tell you I’m tired.
Mentally and physically. Juggling balls and wearing all the hats, yet everywhere I turn I see the remnants of all the things left undone.
Sure, I’m tackling it all but I’m sucking at all of it.
I have mental notes of groceries and crossed out appointments all over my calendar. Meetings look more like one hand on a laptop while trying to teach my toddler through workbooks and learning activities so he doesn’t fall behind. I have laundry piles five feet high and I’m giving my dishwasher a run for it’s money.
Everywhere I look, there is more work to be done.
This is the mental load of motherhood.
It creeps up on you silently, slowly. It weighs heavily on your shoulders until you can’t breathe; until you feel like you’re drowning and just need a moment. A moment to be decision-less. A moment where no one needs you, where you can be silent in your own thoughts and feelings.
I’ve been going for so long, fueled by adrenaline and caffeine that I never allowed myself to feel; instead I suppressed them to keep things running. I numbed myself to the reality and dug my heels down deep into more work, more doing.
As I stood at my kitchen counter, tears streaming down my face I hit my breaking point.
I was all done. Someone call a cab, an Uber, anything. Take me somewhere, anywhere … into the middle of the desert, to the nearest Dairy Queen or someplace that has curly fries.
I needed to be somewhere where I didn’t have to make any decisions; where I didn’t have to think about the needs of everyone around me. I needed a moment to breathe.
This is the stuff no one talks about. The messy. The unfiltered. The ugly parts that leave us feeling unworthy and guilty for needing space.
But sis, we’ve got to stop putting ourselves dead last.
You need space to breathe, too. It’s OK to need a break. Give yourself permission and the space to sit in your own feelings. To sit in your own emotions; cry if you have to, scream into the steering wheel at the top of your lungs, jam out to Beyonce with the windows down and nothing but open road.
This is hard. It’s OK to say that out loud.
I know you miss normal. I know it feels like you are alone, but you’re not. You’re doing OK. You’re making it. You’re pushing through the hard, even if it’s one spoonful at a time – like me.