I am still alive and (mostly) well. Life is good. Monkey is growing and Yogi is fabulous. My wife is sleep-deprived, but as amazing as always. Everyone is eating regular meals and the house has yet to spiral into complete chaos. These are facts that are hard won everyday. This two kid gig is no joke.
And then, of course, there’s me.
I am a caretaker, a helper, an advocate for everybody else. These are quite lovely qualities when my life is in balance and I am well. When the world feels topsy-turvy and I can’t get a handle on much of anything, all of that loveliness turns ugly. I’m doing everything I can think of to ensure that my people are cared for and happy and when there’s extra time, I do things like shower and brush my teeth. I make no time for any kind of self-care (exercising, writing, reading, meditating). After a few weeks of completely ignoring my own self, something very predictable happens. I get pissed.
Nobody likes a martyr.
I’m impossibly tired of this old story. I know I do it, I know it doesn’t work and yet if my behavior is any indication (and it always is) I just can’t help myself. Feeling sick of your own self is such a dispiriting feeling.
So, I guess this is “hello again”. It’s been too long. I miss this place. I miss me. Writing gives me the space to think, to slow down, to give all of the good things in my life a moment to dig their roots into my heart. I need this and it’s perfectly ok for me to get what I need. It’s time to craft a new story for myself. Past time.
So here’s to taking care of your own self. One day at a time, right?