We delivered the babe to the grandies so I could sleep. Usually one great night recharges me and I’m OK. (This is, in fact, the case this a.m.) We started to attempt to dig our home out from the chaos, and I was just spinning. Anxiety attack over nothing/everything. Bu was coaching me through it and keeping me focused enough to help him clean the kitchen, all the while clowning and goosing me and trying to keep my head above water. In response, I was annoyed and terse.
Our stove is a hateful 80’s electric glass topped thing, and it had crud caked on it. Bu turns to me and asks, “Do we have razor blades?” I deadpanned “God, I hope so,” and looked sorrowfully at my wrist. Perfect beat before bursting into hiccuppy crazy laughter. We made Daisy-on-suicide-watch jokes all night long, and it was the perfect tension breaker. Oh, twisted lurve.
Bu also observed that I am really an extremes person. I’ve had that insight but was kind of impressed the way he was analyzing me. I don’t know whether to try to emrace it or “fix” it but it’s nice that he discovered my utter inability to understand moderation. I.e. there is no “house is in decent shape” for me. There is beautiful shining order or evil soul killing chaos and so why fucking bother? I can’t stand to clean a bit at a time. If I start I take all day and the whole house is perfect.
I’m trying to destroy the idea of PERFECT because I know it’s an illusion but it hangs over me everywhere and keeps me in a constant pressurized not-good-enough mindset. I’m journaling a lot on actual paper, trying to symbolically kill Perfect. I wanna make a zine so bad. Maybe I can get started this weekend.