s t r e s s e d

Stressed doesn’t begin to explain what I am feeling but it’s a start. And overwhelmed is a gross understatement. Burnt out, exhausted….just don’t do it justice. I’m confident there is not a word for the magnitude of pressure that is building in my head, the migraine that I’ve had for what seems like forever, the never-ending list of things I need to do/clean/cook/pay/review, the nagging ear ringing, or the agony I am in when someone says Sarah/mom (or any other variations of those) because I’m afraid I won’t be able to deliver. So. Much. Pressure. I can’t answer any more questions. I can’t read any more emails. I can’t solve any more problems.

I HAVE OFFICIALLY EXCEED MAXIMUM CAPACITY.

I know. I’m a mom. We aren’t supposed to have a maximum. We have super powers. Well I’m all super-ed out. There I said it.

This mom is all super-ed out.

 

I think I’m constipated

Why do they call it writer’s block? They should call it writer’s constipation. At least people can relate to constipation. I mean – we’ve all been there. It’s like my brain hurts because there is so much inside and I’m bloated with things I want to write but can’t seem to finish. I try and try…and nothing. Just numb legs and a ring on my ass. Ugh…

So I leave you with these while I work through my situation…

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Don’t guilt me.

I get it. I’m a bad mom. I work full time, I don’t attend every gymnastics practice, I’m not on the PTO, I rarely if ever volunteer at school, I don’t go to church often if ever, I cuss like a fucking sailor, I like my Lady and Diet, I’m not a super fit mom and I lose my temper. I am a bad mom. I get it. You judge me for the way I talk to my daughter like a human being, a young adult instead of belittling her like a 4-year-old. You judge me for not watching my language, for my crazy hair and casual appearance. You judge me for small house, my old car, hell even my mixed family. Admit it – you judge the shit out of me.

It’s okay. I judge the shit out of you too. So we’re even. But don’t – don’t you dare guilt me. Don’t try to make me feel bad for not going to church every weekend or not attending every gymnastics practice. You don’t know me. You have no idea what is happening in my life. You don’t know that sometimes I have to convince myself to get up in the morning, to work through the depression and overwhelming anxiety and push through to be a functioning parent and wife. To find the energy to make a home cooked meal most nights, to study with my kid at night and drive to BFE for the next gymnastics meet, socialize with people when I don’t want to and drive all the way home in the same day. Or to do simple things like laundry, dishes, even getting the mail sometimes seems like a daunting task. So don’t you sit on your PTO pulpit and give me dirty looks for bring in store-bought goods for the class party or not sitting outside on the weekends to gab with the entire neighborhood because I would rather sit in the dark, alone in my room. Do not make me feel bad for not attending every baby shower, birthday, wedding, or party for your mom’s dog’s brother’s friend named Bob because I’m struggling with myself and don’t want to be around other people. DO NOT. DO NOT GUILT ME. EVER.