Weekend Summary:
I lost my writing streak. I was so close to two weeks. While losing my streak doesn’t feel the best, I can’t deny that I loved and enjoyed my weekend. Friday night I wrote. Instead of cross stitching, I curled into bed next to Ox. I was finally able to sleep elevated since we have a billion pillows at the house. It was amazing. I slept deeply, content the few times I did wake up to find Dagger sleeping on my abdomen, his tiny chest rising and falling as he slept with me. 

Saturday wasn’t the “best” day. Even though I woke up feeling ok, I started feeling fatigued again. I did some research into “long-covid”. One of the first things I read was, “Your fatigue is real”. 

That one sentence was actually surprisingly helpful and reassuring. I keep wondering if I’m just “man-flu”ing my symptoms. I can’t be THAT tired. I SHOULD be more recovered. Only… that’s not true. Fatigue is real, and the best thing I can do for my body is to let it rest when it tells me it’s tired. 

So that’s what I did Saturday. I took a nap when I felt like I needed to. I didn’t give myself shit for not jumping straight into task list annihilation mode. When I woke up I slowly started doing things, ever mindful of how I was feeling.

I ended up dying my hair. I showered and it wasn’t just a quick “I need to shower” type of shower. I allowed myself to enjoy the experience. I shaved and cared for my body. I scrubbed my feet, which I’m sure isn’t the sexy feminine ideal that society brainwashes us into having. 

I used to scrub my feet all the time. When I worked at DaVita and was on my feet for 12+ hours a day, I would scrub them more to help ease the pain I felt. I had plantar fasciitis. Waking up in the morning sucked because those first initial steps out of bed felt like searing iron coursing down the ball of my foot into my toes. Scrubbing helped the mornings suck not as much, though there was always, ALWAYS, some degree of pain.

As my plantar fasciitis healed, I didn’t scrub my feet as much. I didn’t need to. But then the calluses on my feet started getting bad. I could feel it in the way the rough skin on the bottom of my feet would catch on the sheets. I could feel the sand-papery sensation and it bothered me. It wasn’t what I was used to. It wasn’t “normal”. And yet, every time I was in the shower I would think about how now my feet were “high maintenance” and rather than doing something about it I would punish my feet for wanting attention by not giving it to them. 

Well, Saturday, during my self-care shower, instead of bitching out my feet, I actually gave them the attention they needed and deserved. My feet have taken me literally everywhere I have gone in my life. They weren’t being “high maintenance” they were asking for regular, normal maintenance and I was being an asshole. 

Why? 

Because they were feet? Because they weren’t “supposed” to need anything? Because it didn’t conform with the false reality that it’s not feminine or sexy to pay attention to something as gross as feet?

Fuck that. My feet deserve to be scrubbed. They deserve attention just like every other part of my body. There’s nothing gross about feet that are cared for. My feet shouldn’t be in pain to be worthy of my attention. So I scrubbed. And scrubbed. And scrubbed. And scrubbed. 

With how much I had already one before setting about the scrub task, I was pretty exhausted by the time my shower was done. Curse you, Fatigue. It felt worth it though. I felt more connected with myself. I felt like I had actually done something to care for myself. It felt like I was actually, finally, “in my corner” like I keep telling myself I am.

I wasn’t able to sleep Saturday night. Instead, I stayed up and cross-stitched in the living room while Ox slept. Dagger kept me company while I listened to a new book. Burnout by Emily and Amelia Nagoski. It was interesting. It helped explain what I experienced during my last months at DaVita. It also explained why certain things seem to work for coping and why other things don’t. It talked about the neuroscience behind those things and since the book is read by the authors you get to hear them geek out over the science. 

I didn’t go to sleep until after 5am. Papa and Mama Ox were already awake. I slept for roughly 4 hours before waking up to have breakfast with the family. It was a super tasty and warm breakfast, after which I laid back down. Ox let me sleep. Eventually, I got up. I cross-stitched more. I showered. I scrubbed my feet again and this time it wasn’t a super huge involved ordeal.  We had dinner. I stitched more. Eventually, it was bedtime. I had a hard time falling asleep so I took melatonin. And that was most of my weekend. 

I got caught up, for the most part, with my Synthroid. I know that’s going to take a little bit to get into my body. I might not have hit the true slump from being behind so much. I’ll get through it though. Today is also the last day of Zoloft for me. I’m looking forward to that. Ox is off work and headed home and my day is about to truly begin. 

I’m grateful for the weekend I had, full of cat cuddles and acceptance, peace and quietness. It was what I didn’t know I needed. 

Daily Summary:
Today was a surprisingly nice day. I woke up with Ox to see him off to work. I went back to sleep with the cats after he left. Woke up again. Took my meds. Chatted with John before writing my weekend summary and taking a shower. Ox was done with work and home by then. We decided to do lunch together only to find out the place we had originally planned to go is closed on Mondays.

We ended up going to Subway instead. I also went to the gas station to put gas in the car and get energy drinks for the week. Ox and I ate outside, enjoying the relatively nice day. The wind wasn’t too bad. The sun was out. It wasn’t super cold. It was a very connective experience and I’m glad we were able to share it together before the weather turned shitty.

We even had some philosophical conversation as we shared a post-meal cigarette. : 3

I drove from Subway to Micheal’s to get some more thread for my project. They didn’t have it. Instead of falling into the pit of disappear, I called Ox. Maybe he would know of another craft store close by. He said with the time I had remaining before work, it most likely wouldn’t be possible for me to get to the other stores. He suggested Walmart since they do, technically, have a shitty craft section. 

I agreed it couldn’t hurt to look. Walmart is on the way back to the apartment. Maybe they would have it. Maybe they wouldn’t. Either way, it wasn’t out of the way so why not try? 

Well… they didn’t have it. : (

That’s ok though. I can try again tomorrow. I did pick up a yard of fabric while I was at Walmart. I want to make something… I need an iron… Super secret project. Dun dun DUUUUUUUUNNNNN!

I returned to the apartment. Unpacked the bag that I took to the house with me. Took out the containers of food from the freezer along with a bag of chicken. I got ready for work and proceed to have a chill day. 

I did get a call 3 minutes before my lunch break. That wouldn’t have been so bad except I was on that call for 50 minutes. ;-;

Once I was finally able to go to break I unloaded the dishwasher, cooked up my breakfast burrito mix, and started the chicken baking. 

I finished listening to Burnout and printed out the PDF sheets the book mentioned. I haven’t done a lot of the sheets. I’m not sure how to yet. Rather… I’m not in a place to utilize a lot of them. I don’t feel I’m having a hard time making a decision. I haven’t figured out my “smash the patriarchy” yet. 

The sheets I did work on revolved around my “ideal” schedule. Now that I have a consistent schedule, I can actually try to structure my days. This is the second day in a row that I haven’t had a fatigue spell. I’m hoping tomorrow is more of the same and I can start trying out this “ideal” schedule. It seems nice in my head. Until I put it into practice I won’t know how it needs to be modified. 

I started listening to a new book. Verbal Judo by George J. Thompson and Jerry B. Jenkins. I’m not very far into it so I don’t have much of an opinion. 

I’ve already cleaned up the kitchen. Washed the pans I used. Wiped down the counters. I’m going to finish the last thread I have before curling into bed and calling today good. Tomorrow might be a little on the busy side before work, but I’m looking forward to it. Hopefully, my energy levels align and it turns into a day of wonderful productivity. Hopefully, this post covid stuff is done. 

Random Ramblings:
One of the things that struck me most about the book Burnout was what Emily and Amilia called “the madwoman in the attic”. Essentially we all have an inner critic that is always hyper-aware of what we’re doing wrong. It’s our “ideal” self. The self we feel like we’re “supposed” to be. Perfect. Flawless. The unrealistic us society forced into our brain to make us feel like crap when we end up being human in an imperfect world. 

I’ve put a lot of thought into this section of the book. I know I have a madwoman in my head, but I couldn’t figure out if it was just one… or if I had two…

I used to write about the two sides of my mind, way, way back in the day. My irrational right brain is my 4-8-year-old self who is always throwing a fit and my logical left brain who I see as a scientist with rimmed glasses scribbling away on her clipboard. 

To me, the child is my id and the scientist my superego. And then there’s me, the ego, constantly trying to get the two to play nice and understand each other. By the way… that job is fucking mentally exhausting. 

Looking at the two sides from the lens of “the madwoman” perspective, I think I’m starting to understand those two better. I understand why mine most likely split instead of remaining as a single entity like it is portrayed in the book. Maybe other people are like me with multiple “madwomen”. I don’t know. All I know is what feels right for me, and for me, I see them as two different personas because they protect two different areas of myself. 

It made me wonder when the split happened and why. 

I don’t know when the little girl emerged. I know I’ve written about her consciously in writings since mom’s death. I don’t know if she predates that. I don’t know at what point my irrational right brain formed into something I could visualize that way. Maybe always. Maybe she was there shortly after dad left and I ignored her, forcing her to sit in timeout for years while I drifted aimlessly through the depression of not being good enough. Maybe I neglected her for a really long time. Maybe she was there through all of the shitty relationships I was in and that was why those relationships felt so shitty; because I wasn’t protecting her any more than I was protecting myself. 

What I know is this is who she is now. She is the part of my consciousness that represents my worthiness, preciousness, my softness, my care, my love, my desire to do good and to make people happy. 

She is also my vulnerability. She is the me without armor. She is the me that needs love and nurturing and affection because those ARE needs. 

She lets me know when we have hurt someone or someone has hurt us. She lets me know when we’re lonely, which is different from the desire to be alone and to have solitude. She lets me know when I have gone too long without a hug or a connective conversation or experience. She lets me know when reality is different from the ideal I feel I should be living. 

She is the me which rages at injustice and cries when the world is cruel. She is the me who is hotheaded and willful and fuck armor I don’t need armor! I will destroy you with my bare hands because how dare you think you can treat people that way! She is so full of righteous fury sometimes and hellbent on proving her point that it doesn’t matter that she is small. She will make the world see right because how hard is it to be kind? Why, why can’t people just… not be assholes?

And then there’s my scientist. I feel I have a better understanding of when she developed. Around the time I turned 13 I think. She is my logic and facts. She’s the one who peers over her rimmed glasses and informs my child-me that throwing a fit and being angry or crying isn’t going to change anything. She’s the one with charts and data and research articles worth of information supporting or disproving why something is right or wrong. 

Emotions mean very little to my scientist. The only thing she truly cares about are facts, numbers, statistics, probabilities, backup plans, task lists, visual progress, structure, procedures…. 

She lets me know when I’m “being irrational” or “emotional”. She loves letting me know when we’re “behind schedule” or “being unproductive”. She’s also amazingly awesome at letting me know when “being emotional” is dumb. 

She’s not warm and supportive. She’s very distant and detached. She is an observer and she informs me about hard truths. She’s also really good at planning and seeing patterns in behavior and calling shit because she has pages and pages and pages of unconscious information scribbled down on her clipboard. In a way, she’s my intuition. I don’t have access to all her notes, but she does and she knows how shits going to go down and I should trust her and if I don’t she’s going to do that “peering over the rim of her glasses” thing with that “look” when something goes the way she said it would. She doesn’t have to say “I told you so”. She wouldn’t sully her perfect scientific demeanor by doing something so petty. I almost wish she would because fuck that look! I know I should have listened to you, alright! For fucks sake, not everyone can be perfect know it alls like you!

She is a quick learner and one super smart cookie, even if she’s not the friendliest person. 

They both serve a role within the landscape of who I am and how I’m supposed to interact within the world. I understand now why it’s so hard for them to get along. The scientist invalidates my child’s emotions and my child doesn’t care about the numbers and logic. 

I’ve always felt these two beings were at war with each other and I am the field on which they waged battle.

Maybe it’s because I’m seeing this scene with older eyes that I realize it’s not a war but a misunderstanding. How can a child wage war and why would a scientist want to?

They both want understanding, respect, and validation. 

It’s not a battle, it’s miscommunication and it’s a miscommunication because I didn’t understand. I didn’t know how to communicate. It wasn’t either of them doing something wrong or being incompatible. It was me not listening.

My inner child was crying out about how she didn’t like the way she was being treated and yet I stayed. My scientist was giving me rational arguments and yet I ignored what she said was a red flag. 

And when my child cries it should not be my scientist talking to her. It should be me; 30-year-old emotionally intelligent me. I should be the one to hug her and ask her why she is upset because I understand her emotions. My child does not need a scientist to look at the situation and say there’s no visual reason to be upset so stop crying. 

I’m not sure I have it all figured out in my head. Maybe my scientist is the “madwoman” but I don’t think so. She means well. She is trying to help me survive just as much as my inner child. They both want me to be safe and loved and to be the best version of myself I can be. 

They both serve a purpose and my purpose is to understand them. So I’m trying to. I don’t feel like I have a lot of experience in understanding either of them. I don’t think I’ve ever tried to understand with empathy. I’ve always tried to control both of them. You! Be less emotional. And you! Be less of an unfeeling bitch. I’ve never looked at what they needed or wanted or what their strengths were; how they bettered me as a person. It was always me bitching about how they made my mental landscape hell. 

Maybe if I didn’t ignore them, maybe if I listened to what they were trying to tell me, they wouldn’t have to wage war to be heard…