Be kind; rewind (my life to better days)

Forgive me, Father readers, for I have sinned been in a slump.

My last confession was 13 days ago. I shared with you how disastrous I felt my house was. I even showed you a picture or two. And made some of you giggle with the "Let it Go" video. Thanks for validating me.

I don't expect to get a lot of uplifting remarks, nor is this a cry for help in any way. I am simply one of thousands who battle daily to find their place and be comfortable in it.

The other day I posted on my Facebook page asking for blog topics. A former columnist of mine popped in with the suggestion I write about "being kind to yourself." I was in the frame of mind yesterday where that post would have been completely uplifting - I'd started my morning by doing a guided meditation on a new Roku channel I found and had my half a pot of coffee and the kids were relatively calm. Yesterday was pretty decent on all fronts.

But that was yesterday. Today was a different story - I slept late, needed to grocery shop, we ran out of coffee and I thought that alone would kill me, the kids fought with each other, the kids fought with me, the dog keeps trying to dig under the back porch, the hustle and bustle of dance class during the dinner hour, realizing my kids were eating yogurt for dinner at almost 7 p.m. and then a near argument with the Boy over this very blog entry (because he doesn't understand it).

Today reminded me of all the reasons I'm not nice to myself. Why I'm bitter and pissed off a lot. Why I sometimes want to pack a bag and tell my husband it's all his responsibility for three days while I go hide in the woods somewhere. This is basically the antithesis of my friend's request for a post about "being kind to yourself." Sorry 'bout that.

No. I'm not always kind to myself and on occasion I write something praying others will see the internal struggle or maybe the pure brilliance (because some people think I'm kind of good at this writing thing). When I write it, though, I can hide it. I can hide the self defeat behind some shitty humor and the sadness is removed via the "back space" key that my pinkie finger reaches for on a constant basis.

There are days I hate getting out of my pajamas. Showering is the biggest chore. I think about going to the gym, but make one excuse after another why I haven't gone.

I am not always kind to myself.

Neither are you.

Sometimes being kind is exhausting. I can be genuinely nice to other people without a problem, but when it comes to how I treat myself ... I'm a mean girl. I'm the worst mean girl I have ever met.

I can't recall the last time I had a day where I didn't tell myself I was doing a shit job raising my kids or feeling like I neglect them because I want to take time for me. I constantly feel guilty for not working full-time still and being successful and career oriented. I tell myself I'm wasting my degrees; I just wasted $130,000 of my parent's hard earned blue collar wages. Most days I look in the mirror repeatedly to pick at the flaws. There are a lot of them. I remind myself I'm not beautiful, my breasts are too small, my thighs too big, my stomach not firm enough; I only like my toes in the summer when they're tan. My calves look like they belong on a man and it pains me to try to find boots I love because of them. My arms aren't skinny enough. My hair needs attention ... my hair is lucky I'm not in the bathroom with a pair of Fiskars at the ready. I'm a sucky friend. I don't call my friends out of the blue and most have likely forgotten how close we once were. They don't call me either. No one asks what's going on with me unless we're in the same room and then it's social obligation, I feel. No one asks if I'm OK. No one, I tell myself, truly cares. Fuck. My husband rarely asks what's wrong because he expects I'll just tell him if something is bothering me.

Once in a while I tell myself my hair looks great. Wow, Miranda, your legs look awesome in those pants. You really make that shirt look fabulous.

I never want my daughters to put themselves through this.

It's apparent I have a lot of self hatred. It's been years of cultivating and grooming and nitpicking to get to this level of hate. I've put a lot of effort into pointing out my flaws that I can't possibly see what I actually look like anymore with the exception of the rare photo that's taken of me ... which I can then quickly compare to one taken six months or a year ago. I'm not perfect on the inside because I'm not perfect on the outside? Probably. But believe it or not, I'm too busy these days to worry about it as much as I did in high school or college when everything seemed to be a popularity contest. The social jungle chewed me up and spit me out.

Body image disorders and depression (even undiagnosed as such), or even just the blues because it won't stop snowing or get above 50 degrees for longer than a few hours, can easily turn a great day into a fabulously shitty day and act as conduits to the horrible reminders of all those things we don't think we can have or achieve. I rarely take time for myself because I get tired of begging for the time off from the house, the kids, the wife-related duties. I guilt myself into not loving me. I don't love me, but I love the idea of the person I could be if I gave a shit. If I gave a shit or two I'd be a freaking powerhouse.

These are things I don't share with anyone but my husband these days despite feeling them for years. We spent time last weekend talking about the seasonal depression I've been feeling and experiencing, finally giving my "I feel lonely, don't come near me; I miss my friends, fuck my friends" feelings a name. He confided that where I'm at (outwardly, I suppose) ... it's not bad or the worst I've ever been, but he's seen it getting worse as winter has dragged on and on. It makes me hate me less and New York more to know it's coinciding with hell freezing over for the last six months; it's seasonal, it's cyclical. I'll survive this, too. 

This is in part why I stepped up to the #40bagsin40days challenge, and I know I've probably annoyed some people on the Interwebs with my daily posting of pictures and pats on the back ... but try to understand. I've had to go back mentally to where I was almost two years ago and start working room by room to reduce the chaos. I need to fix that part of things to start fixing all of this. Now, reread that last part and imagine me pointing to all of me. It'll make more sense.

When my rooms - the physical ones and the mental ones - get so cluttered my focus snaps, but can no longer snap to attention, all of this hate comes pouring out. It's devastating to see it. It breaks my heart that I'm openly admitting these things to you, sharing this part of me. I want to always be honest in my writing (unless, you know, I switch and start working on some fiction in my spare time) but that means pulling up the blinds and letting the sunlight filter in while the dust settles. My self hatred is the dust.

No. I am not always kind to myself, but I'm trying. Despite not loving myself fully I am attempting to nitpick less and start telling myself nice things about me when I realize I'm binging on all the mean things I can think. I've been able to think a little clearer, but my focus for work related things is still shot. I'm working on that, too.

It is really difficult being a social creature locked up inside your own thoughts.

Stop being mean to yourself. Stop with the nasty thoughts all the time. If you haven't heard from a friend recently, check in on them. Make sure they aren't slipping away unnoticed.

I know I'm not alone in this ...