I have an email in my inbox from my therapist—reminding me to eat right and go to a doctor about the stomach aches I’ve been continuing to have and telling me that I can’t make strides toward mental health until my body is well.
I get about 50 emails a day, so every day her email gets buried further and further. Under work, under blog comments, under friendly emails and more work. It’s relieving. I haven’t replied. I’m wrapping a big warm blanket of procrastination around my shoulders and carrying on.
(Not that I haven’t been trying. To work on me.)
In fact, since I brilliantly failed to close the fridge all the way when we went out of town last weekend, all my food went bad. I angsted about it for a while, cried over poured-out milk, and then decided the universe was nudging me to buy healthier food for my family.
Last night I stocked up and spent about an hour at the grocery store reading labels. Yeah, I bought store brands. And no, it wasn’t all organic. But I tried to limit preservatives and nitrates and anything that felt overtly bad.
(Speaking of which, ugh, does anyone have a reasonably priced alternative to Kraft singles? They appear to be made exclusively out of WTF-sauce and I cannot afford to keep my kids rolling in organic cheese the way they’d prefer to thanks to their dual fifteen thousand grilled cheese sandwiches a week habits.)
This is supposed to be about me though.
(I don’t like saying “this is about me” or reminding myself to focus on me or doing anything me-me-me shaped. It makes me feel like a dick. Oh, the guilt. Rar.)
I got MYSELF some walnuts, yogurt, granola and blackberries. Some preservative-free turkey breast slices, nine-billion-grain bread and gouda slices. Two artichokes. Asparagus. Split chicken breasts. Okay, and some chocolate chip cookies.
I will eat a decent breakfast, and not just coffee. I will remember to stop work long enough to make lunch. I will continue going on hobbling jogs walks in the evenings.
My garden grows outside. I ate some parsley right off the plant yesterday.
Over the weekend, my husband stepped into my line of sight and put his hands on my arms and looked at me and kissed my forehead.
Last night I didn’t feel afraid at all, not once. The full moon didn’t bring me nightmares worth remembering.
Last night I didn’t rush through my son’s bedtime routine. We asked each other questions and talked about space.
Yesterday I only nursed twice. Today I’ll only nurse twice.
My best friend is getting married and asked me to be her honor attendant.
I took a picture of lightning while standing on a sixth floor balcony. It’s out of focus but the bolt is there, terrifying and stark and awesome.
I finished my work by 3:30 today. Now I can make cupcakes for my dad’s birthday.
Maybe I’m not procrastinating as much as finding a comfortable place to breathe. I haven’t replied but the email is there, holding me accountable, reminding me to eat walnuts and stretch my shoulders and exhale.
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