All the things undone and all that I am actually doing

I need to write but I also really, really, really want to sew today. So I’m going to keep this short.

I’m behind in every aspect of my life. And, yes, I’m disabled AND still have active C-PTSD, but (AND) I feel like I should be able to get caught up and be on top of everything. I can feel my head getting fuzzy as I write this. A sign that I’m expressing something that comes from a cognitive distortion. It’s not hard for me to identify it as a need to be perfect to protect myself from shame, blame and harm.

Up until things started to truly fall apart a few years ago, I ran myself ragged staying on top of every little thing. I worked two jobs while going to school for my undergrad in psychology. Then I was a new first-time mom while working on my graduate degree. I was also married to an alcoholic who rarely came home before 5am and did very little to help around the house. After I got my masters degree I left that husband, moved across the country with my 2 year old and very little money. Somehow I kept it all together.

Then I met my most recent partner (now ex-husband) and we started a life together in which I worked, cared for my first child, and did most of the housework and cooking. Over the next few years we had two children and my health began to decline. I was put on bedrest multiple times. During my pregnancies, once with acute hepatitis, and once with hyponatremia and hypochloremia. And all the while I was having uncontrolled seizures, as well as increasing anxiety, depression and the occasional mild psychosis. Looking back, it’s so easy to see what a ginormous mess I was.

I was 46 when my latest breakdown happened. After I’d been in therapy with my current therapist for a while, I slowly began to realize that I had to let go of my overachieving perfectionism. Maybe I developed it because I thought if I were a good girl, the best girl, then my dad wouldn’t come to me at night and hurt me. Maybe my mother would be proud of me and believe I was safe, and then my dirty secret would be safe and she wouldn’t be in harms way from my father’s threat. Certainly, being so accomplished gave me something to be proud of and to believe in. But it also served as a buffer between what I wanted my life to be like and the truth, which was that I was terribly, awfully fucked up by the multiple abuses I’d experienced during the first 22 years of my life.

So I let go over and over again and then some more. And here I am, my house a mess, laundry overflowing, the dog’s yard uncleaned, junk on my front porch, bills unpaid and a pile of mandalas I’ve colored while ignoring all the things I “should” have been doing.

I can hear inner judgment about all those undone things.

And yet, it is work untangling all the lies, shame, pain and secrets that exist within when you were abused as a child. While those chores and life tasks were left undone, I’ve been working my ass off processing and coming to know my alters and making room for them in my life. And though I’m certainly not an all star mother right now, I do still have 3 kids that I feed, shelter, nurture and guide. Those are no easy tasks.

This post is a bit chaotic. Certainly not one of my more eloquent ones. I just needed to write down and acknowledge my feelings about all the things hanging over my head. And all the things I am doing that aren’t necessarily so easily seen.

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