I go to sleep each night thinking of all the ways I’ve failed. I failed to get my kitchen spic and span. I failed to match all the socks and get all the clean clothes into their drawers. I failed to write any more on my neglected creative projects. I failed to eat enough vegetables. I failed to do push-ups and bicep curls and sit-ups. I failed to read my Bible and I failed to write in my flowered journal. I failed to clean off the cluttered cabinet behind my desk. I failed to floss. I failed my kids in visible and invisible ways.
Is this normal? Is it normal to measure your life by all the ways you fail yourself and your family each day? Is it normal to count the passing of the days by the missed opportunities and the broken promises, big and small?
I begin each day already buried under the pile of expectations I failed to meet the day before. I’m already behind before I begin. The race begins and I have to detour around obstacles to even get to the course.
I can’t catch up.
I can’t recognize any successes in my life. I’m blind to the good, deaf to the music. All I can feel is the thrumming bass of all the urgent demands that I can’t ever meet.
And so tonight, I’ll crawl into bed, trying not to wake my husband, and think that tomorrow, maybe tomorrow, I’ll get something done. I’ll achieve something that might last until darkness falls again. But probably not. And then I’ll think of all the things I wish I’d done, all the things I would have done if only I could get myself together, if only I had time.
Some people have a mental “To Do” list but I have this other list, this horrible list of “Things I Didn’t Get Done” and every day the list grows longer and I feel more desperation and despair.
This can’t be normal.
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(Please, please who know me in real life, I’m just venting. It’s okay. This is what we writing types do from time to time. It helps us think through things.)