Sometimes I wish someone would give me permission to feel my feelings.
I realize, however, that the only person who can do that is me.
I really struggle with excuses. I don't like them. I don't like to use them. I have an innate desire to be perfect and invincible, though neither of those things is possible. I often get mad at myself because I can't keep up with the pace at which I would like to live life. My body and my children will not let me.
I hate not feeling productive. I hate having my husband come home to a house that is messier than he left it two days ago. I hate knowing that I could be, should be, would be more if I would stop being so lazy.
I am learning, however, that there is a fine line between lazy and sick. And although I don't like to admit it, my body is ill and will be for the rest of my life. My handful of livable diseases can create a perfect storm of fatigue.
And some days I can't tell the difference between "I don't want to function today" and "I can't function today." All I know is that in the space between those two thoughts, there is a lot of room for guilt and self-doubt.
I need to just do the best I can, right?
What happens when I don't know what is my best?
Sometimes, when I try to get there, I overdo it and spend the next three days paying for my confidence.
But sometimes, I end up exceeding my expectations.
So I guess it all boils down to this today: I need to take a breather from berating myself and know that maybe someday I'll figure it out. I give myself permission to do that.
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