I feel better when I shower upon awakening and then brush my teeth.
I feel better when I write each day, when I read each day.
I feel better when I reach out and talk to a friend or loved one.
I feel better when I eat healthy and take a walk each day.
Why are such simple things sometimes so damn hard to do?!?!
Those of you who have mental health afflictions and/or addictions understand how baffling — and downright plaguing — a question this can be.
I myself suffer from a myriad of mental health issues: ADHD, Addiction/Alcoholism, Borderline Personality Disorder, Mild Depression, and OCD. (And those are just the ones with which I’ve been officially diagnosed. 🤦♀️ )
Most days I function like any other human being. If you were to encounter me in a meeting you might think, That lady seems to have it figured out a bit. And on occasion, I do. But more often than not, it’s simply a product of putting on a good front.
There are days when getting out of bed is a monumental task. Never mind the rest of it. Mitchell has been with me long enough to recognize the signs of such days, and the poor man has become adept at walking on eggshells (and enduring the tumultuous storms of my moods).
On good days, I get out of bed and brush my teeth. I shower and dry my hair. I put on clean clothes. I go to a meeting. I read. I write. And I used to eat healthy and take a walk each morning.
Initially, Mitchell and I stopped walking because Tucson in the summer is akin to living on the threshold of hell. (One of my husband’s friends once said that it was so damn hot a hobbit stopped by his home, knocked on the door, and threw a ring at him. LOL!) But the heat doesn’t excuse my lapse from Yoga and YouTube aerobic videos for the more fluffy among us.
The plain truth is that it is easier to give in to despair than it is to pull yourself out of it. And unfortunately, I tend to take the easy route first… that is, until I hit brush so thick that I have to fight it — tooth and nail — with a machete and frenzied bouts of exertion that often lead to injury. (I.e. I tend to learn things the hard way.)
You would think after forty-three years on this earth I would’ve come to the decisive conclusion that “doing the next right thing” is far more satisfying than the self-flagellation that comes the morning after a rice krispy treat binge in dirty pajamas with oily hair, but goddam it! Those chewy little suckers are just so damn delicious. 😂
In pondering over such thoughts this morning, I realized that my obvious outside has never matched my metaphorical inside.
When I was thin, and relatively pretty, I was riddled with insecurity and fear. Now that I have the budding self-confidence that comes with working a sober program, I’m a chubby housewife that rarely bothers with cosmetics.
I’d like to say that it doesn’t bother me… but dishonesty can plunge a person into the rabbit hole of active addiction. So let me be plain. It absolutely bothers me. On a daily basis.
I didn’t want to write about it. Writing puts it out there where I have to look at it… and I cannot sit in a mess for long before I hurriedly set about cleaning it up.
And yet, here we are.
I did get up this morning and brush my teeth. I showered and dried my hair. I put on clean clothes (though I confess I’m wearing Mitchell’s shirt in lieu of doing the laundry). I sat down and started to write. And now?
Now I have work to do… and because I’ve shared my woes with you, Dear Reader, I must try to right them… and there’s no take backs on commitments anymore. AA taught me that.