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I’ve been a shitbag of doldrums lately. Just ask my poor husband who’s had to put up with me.
My children are my joy, my heart, my life. They laugh, they smile, they play with each other, they love me, they love their father, they are cute, they are amazing, nothing short of exquisite. But. But. But, they also give me migraines, heart attacks and a case of oh-my-god-I-want-to-poke-my-eyes-out-with-a-toothpick. The tantrums, the stubbornness, the crying, the whining, the non-sleeping, the constant testing of my patience. It’s enough to make me feel like I am failing them, at each and every turn.
The past week has been trying. I have said to my husband that perhaps this stay-at-home mothering thing is just not me. I can’t do it. I suck. They may be better off if someone else looks after then for 8 hours a day. Do you know how fucked up it is when you feel like that, and say it out loud?
Fortunately, my husband is a patient, saint of a man, who assured me that I don’t suck, that I am the best person for these two boys. He tells me it’s just been a challenging time, a time of transitions and growth for everyone (you know, as opposed to just rolling his eyes and telling me to get over myself).
I told him, I don’t feel like I’ve accomplished anything. When my head hits the pillow every night, I don’t feel like I’ve done anything useful. He says, the children wake up healthy, in one piece and generally happy, well, you’ve done good. And I say, isn’t that what I’m supposed to do? Those things cannot possibly be the yardstick by which I measure my awesomeness. Those are the basics of looking after children, no?
Aside from general suckyness of the day-to-day where I am not supermom, I am feeling inadequate in many ways. My little business is not taking off. I know exactly what I need to do to get it to fly. After all, I am in the business of helping others do the same. But I can’t get my ass in gear. I can’t get to that right head space to do what I need to do, to be awesome at social media. I know I can do it. I just haven’t.
That comes down to my self-doubt. I am plagued by it these days. I just feel sick over it. Physically in fact. My stomach hurts. It has been for a few days and of course I’ve convinced myself I have cancer or some other illness because my god, surely self-doubt is not so toxic that it’s in my gut now (or it could be that chili I ate the other day, who knows). *Update: It was appendicitis. Damn.
I’ve just felt like a shitbag of self-doubt. My face agrees because lo and behold, I have a massive zit on my chin, and I only get chin zits when I’m stressed.
And this blog. This is mine, you know. My space. Where I’m supposed to be awesome. Or at least that’s what I try to make you think. I am tired. Tired of keeping my zitty chin up. I want to fall to my knees and cry, and tell you, I am not quite right. I suck. I am self-doubting. And you will be kind and say, no, you don’t suck, you are awesome, don’t be silly, you have all these things going on – people must like you, you must be doing something right?
Such is the beauty of blogging, isn’t it? All these people who’ve never met you, assuring you that you’re okay? That you can just write whatever down and people relate, or feel sorry for you, and reach out, tell you it’s going to be fine? That we use our blogs as therapy, just put it out there and hope that people don’t think worse of you because you admitted you suck most of the time. That you will most likely feel better after pouring your heart out, and after everyone pats your shoulder and tell you not to cry.
I’m going nowhere with this except to 750 words, making this a LONG rambling post, not just a rambling post.
I just wanted to write it down. Read it out loud to myself. What it’d do for me, I don’t know. I just know I had to.