They say that when I tell them Drew is home an average of two days a week. I used to just smile, sometimes I'd just shrug and say "I don't have much choice I guess" but only yesterday I told the truth.
I'm not doing it. I'm failing miserably.
A few days ago I had a full out anxiety attack. The baby was crawling around on the floor and when I picked her up, her little knees were filthy and covered in dog hair. I frantically brushed at her pants, horrified that I had a dirty baby. The dog hair wasn't coming off, no matter how much I brushed at her pants. I couldn't see anything but dog hair. My breath caught in my chest and I started crying. No matter how much I clean, no matter how much I sweep and vacuum, I will never escape the dog hair.
I can't post all the links where I've written about my dog hair anxiety because I'm blogging from my phone(how cool is that!), but this isn't new information. This isn't even the first time the baby has been dirty/covered in hair. But it was different, and in that moment I wanted to scream.
It's all so much. I'm so tired. We fight so much. So flippin much.
Trying to sell the house has been so hard. Every time I get the feedback email saying how cute our house is, but it's just not right, I get my feelings hurt. Like they're rejecting us personally, like we're dumb and weird and the only ones alive who would like our house. I've asked to be taken off the emails because I can't hear it anymore.
I do my best, but my house isn't my own. Staged houses aren't conducive for real life, although we try our best. My home decorating, crafty, DIY outlet is indefinitely suspended.
Retail therapy is out. By my own admission, I was getting a little enthusiastic with Amazon and Target, but thanks to Pennsylvania state taxes that we have to pay now, overnight we lost $500 a month. Talk about a gut punch. We're cutting back everywhere and it's still not enough.
The separation, the money, the job, it's all taking its toll on our relationship. We're holding on by our fingernails and we won't give up, but it's not pretty.
I'm at my doctor's now to talk about getting some pharmaceutical assistance. I never in my life thought I would end up here and I don't even know if pills will help, but I have to try.
I've been carrying all of this, and I need to set it down. I need to say out loud that this is hard. Yes, I have my health, my baby is perfect, I'm still married. I have blessings.
Which is why I feel like such a failure. Why I'm beating myself up right now, telling myself that I should be stronger. It's pretty pathetic that I don't even have the strength to give myself a proper dressing down.
I can't paint something, I can't shop. I can't take a yoga class without guilt about spending the money, I miss my husband but you'd never be able to tell by how we rip each other to shreds when we're together.
So I write. I dump. I may take meds. And I hold on by my fingernails, hoping and praying that there's something left when the storm is over.