Tuesday stream of consciousness

I bought hydrangeas from the grocery store yesterday and they are already wilting. This feels like a metaphor, but I am too tired to explore it.

Naturally, I blamed myself. Did I cut the stems too short? Did I use too much water in the jar? Not enough? Was the water too warm? Too cold? Did it come with a packet of flower food I forgot to pour in? I honestly can’t remember, and it was only yesterday I placed them on the piano in an attempt to brighten our home and spirits. 

I don’t know much about flowers. I wish I did. Every day, I talk about starting a garden. At this very moment, I have two vertical planters in my Amazon cart. Our neighbor texted last week asking if we would like two raised garden beds he didn’t need anymore. My husband had barely uttered the words, do we want …? before I nodded an enthusiastic yes. They are now sitting in our backyard, empty, taunting me. 

A few weeks ago, I joined a local gardening group on Facebook and I’m now reading the posts daily, religiously, educating myself on our Sacramento climate, what grows well and what doesn’t, when to plant, when to prune, how much to water. Did you know if you line your garden with pennies, copper keeps the slugs away? Did you know you can use a fake snake to scare away squirrels?

The squirrels are my biggest concern with starting a garden because roughly a dozen of them have taken up residence in our backyard. They run around all day playing tag up and down the trees, eating all of our apricots and leaving a mess of skins and pits in their wake. On good days, our yard feels like a scene straight out of Snow White with the chirping birds and swaying leaves and adorable creatures scampering all around. 

Last week, though, was full of bad days. 

I am not sure what eventually sent me into a tailspin. It could have been my husband’s intense work deadline, rendering him mostly absent last week while I attempted to meet my own deadlines and homeschool and take care of the baby and make roughly one million meals (what a tragedy that nobody in this house loves cereal as much as I do). It could have been the fact that I stubbed my toe on my office chair, the chair I never sit in anymore, the chair that my dear sweet husband seems to be incapable of pushing back into the desk while not using. Naturally, I blamed him for this incident. I actually thought I might have broken it—my entire toe turned purple and swelled up 1.5x its normal size. I said some very bad words after it happened, and spent the afternoon icing my foot while googling how to know if your toe is broken. For what it’s worth: I actually think mine is, but I’m not willing to go to the doctor right now to find out for sure. The Internet tells me it will probably be fine in six weeks.

I digress. It could have been distance learning that sent me over the edge, or the filthy house, or the lack of sleep. It could have been my period. Actually, come to think of it, of course it was my period. A few months ago, I asked around in secret—does PMS get worse as you get older? Or, worse as you have more kids? Because ever since I had Presley, I feel actual rage shooting through my body the week of my period. 

The answers were mixed, but a couple of friends recommended a particular vitamin to help balance my hormones. I cringed when I saw the price tag, $50 for a 30-day supply. There was no way I could justify spending $600 a year on managing PMS.

Well, until last week, that is. Because last week, I had so much pent up fury running through my veins, I think I could have killed a squirrel with my bare hands. (As I type these words, I wonder if I need therapy. Maybe I’ll try the vitamins first; they are cheaper than my therapist’s hourly rate.) 

In my lowest point, I began drafting The Letter. I’ve thought about the end before, but never this concretely. It went something like, “Well, we had a nice run. Thank you for supporting us for almost six whole years; it has been the privilege of a lifetime stewarding this space.”

I went all the way down the rabbit hole. Maybe I will quit everything. Maybe we can move to Switzerland. To a farm, where I can garden in peace and be one with the land. Do they have farms in Switzerland? Does Switzerland have better healthcare? Would these $50 PMS vitamins be covered by insurance there? I wanted to escape, to run, to abandon all responsibility for just five whole minutes and not feel the pressure of constant impending failure hanging around my neck like a bag of bricks.

Spoiler alert: my husband does not wish to move to Switzerland. 

So, instead, I deleted Instagram and Facebook from my phone. I logged out of my work Slack channel. I told my team I was “taking the week off”—whatever that means.

I need to reset, to recalibrate, to power all the way down before booting back up. 

I want to put something in those empty garden beds. I want my head to stop pounding. I want my vision to stop aching. I want to read five pages of a book without feeling restless. I want to write again. I want to be quiet, anonymous, still. I want to make scones on a Monday morning without feeling racked with guilt that I should be doing something more important. I want scones, in this moment, to be important. 

I want a break. I want to take a nap. I want to write these confessions without sounding like the whiny privileged woman that I am. I also want to write without disclaimers. Can I say both of these things in the same paragraph? I am worried about how all of this sounds. 

I am exhausted by the worrying, the wanting, the working, the doing. I feel like my mind has been slowly shutting down over the past nine weeks. All of my carefully constructed systems have fallen apart. My boundaries are gone. I am back to the unhealthiest version of myself, the one who works all day long in three-minute increments while ignoring the needs of herself and her family. Just a sec, I say to my baby girl, as she holds a book up in the air she wants me to read. Just a sec, I say to my eight-year-old, who needs help with his math assignment. Just a sec, I say to my five-year-old, who cannot peel his orange. I check another inbox, another message, another platform, another conversation; I offer a reply, an exclamation point, a thankyouverymuchforthisfeedback. 

This is my default in times of severe stress. This is the hanging fruit on the tree, the lie I am tempted to believe, that I must tighten my fists around anything and everything to prove my worth. My soul begs to stop, to rest, to pump the brakes for a second. My mind refuses. I must keep the wheels on this bus, now more than ever. What am I without this? Nothing. Who will love me without this? Nobody. 

I know none of that is true. But knowing it and living it are two different things. 

Last week I knew it; this week I am living it. Yesterday I slept in, finally made an eye appointment. I scrubbed the kitchen and started a new book and left my phone on the nightstand for hours. I made a real dinner that we ate at the dining room table as a family. I am embarrassed to admit I cannot remember the last time we did that. Everett retrieved a decorated can of conversation starters for the occasion, something he made at school for last year’s Christmas gift. We passed it around and took turns asking questions while the baby fed herself and miraculously did not throw anything on the floor. 

When it was Brett’s turn, he pulled the following prompt: “What is something that made you sad today?” 

I waited for the boys to respond, holding my breath. 

“Nothing,” Everett shrugged, “I never felt sad today.”

“Yeah, me either,” piped Carson. 

Today, we ate homemade strawberry scones for breakfast. I spent an hour in the sunshine with a friend, hiking on a trail five minutes from my house that I’ve never stepped foot on before. When I got home, I took a moment to admire the hydrangeas beginning to bloom in my backyard, which look ten times better than the ones I bought at the store. This feels like a metaphor, but I’m too tired to explore it.