There is so much I could write about the early part of last week. Oh so much. It was bad. Real bad. Not life-and-death bad, but I-swear-to-god-if-I-don’t-stroke-out-by-the-end-of-all-this-I-will-be-genuinely-shocked bad. Related: If I have what I think is sudden onset pulsatile tinnitus am I dying? Let me know in the comments! 🫠
Unlike the previous 100 years of my life, I’m doing everything possible to take the absolute best care of myself, and yet … I still feel like I’m being ground to dust. I’m managing multiple massive shifts for my kids and myself, in a compressed period of time, and it’s all weighing on my head and heart. I’m feeling sandwiched between the sorrow and selfishness of others, while trying to hold space for myself. And I feel like I’m bearing all of it alone, largely because I am. That is by choice, I suppose, but still.
I have cried more over the past month — out of guilt, stress, surrender, shame, frustration, and enough rage to fuel the sun — than I have in quite a while. I am reaching the point where I fantasize that my eyes are lasers, and I can simply point them at everyone and everything standing in my way. Stare. Fire. Obliterate. Repeat.
Alas. All I’ve got is two regular eyes that can’t even read a menu on their own anymore.
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