The week has been long, but I know it’s just started. I get myself into these situations … piling on these heaps of things to do. I like to do them, but then, I don’t. I love to do them, and then … then, they just become reminders of what I’m limited by.
Isn’t until there is too much on my plate that I try to shovel things off of it, hide them in my napkin, flush them down the toilet. If I didn’t want to do them, that would be one thing. It’s the “wanting to do” that bothers me most.
I was a Type A, bordering on OCD. I say “was” because I have come to terms with the fact that I was one person, and I’m becoming another. I’m not perfect; I don’t even try to be. You have to believe perfection is possible to be a Type A.
When I begin to feel worse, I give myself some slack. I try not to feel guilty. But it doesn’t always work. But mostly, guilt has morphed into sadness. Now I just feel disappointed. I imagine myself, dressed in red, buried beneath a heap of things to do. I imagine that pile of items spiraling to the ceiling, items cascading down, myself becoming smaller, and smaller. I imagine that I can stop it, but just for one moment, before it all comes crashing down.