The Adventures of a Pandemic Domestic Failure

I’m forcing myself to continue write because I think it’s healthier than the big rock of inexpressive nothing I’ve been. If my words seem intense or poorly written, its because they’ve been on fire and bouncing around my shuttered, terrified soul that hasn’t seen self-expression or self-love in months.

I haven’t only not been myself, I’ve not been anyone lately.

I’ve been checking my email and socials on repeat hoping that I’ve missed some good news somewhere.

I’ve been in denial about a lot of things I think, and on auto processing to deal with being awake and alive.

Its gotten so bad in the last month or two that I’m becoming increasingly convinced that I’ve already died and I’m in hell, forever reliving the same day. And forever barely functioning in that same day.

Failing. Being told I’m bad at what is literally now my only purpose, being a mother, by my own child. I’m not trying to fail them. I’m trying to find hope and carry on every day. Its hard to do when most of the words you hear every day are unkind, even if, or especially if, they’re coming from your child.

And to be honest I am failing. I have to take anxiety medication as soon as I wake up or I have a panic attack and I cant even think straight the rest of the day, right off the bat. I have to stay medicated to be sitting still and responsive. Getting things actually done doesn’t feel like its in my power most days.