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My reality

Recently, it feels like I am such a failure at everything. And when you feel that way, it is so hard to write about it. Since that’s all I’ve been talking about lately anyway, it gets pretty old. And if it’s bugging me, it certainly must not be fun for you to read about.

And yet… it is my reality. All I see are the things I haven’t done. Projects I haven’t finished, things I have failed my son and husband in, my messy house, a stack of books I haven’t read, filing and laundry and dishes to be done…

I used to be (and feel) so organized. I was on top of everything most of the time. And now, if it weren’t for automatic billpay, we’d probably be without living quarters or utilities. I just can’t seem to get it together.

It’s hard to admit. Hence, the ongoing silence. What do I say without sounding like I’m just whining? AGAIN? It’s still my reality right now. All I see right now as I look around is everything I haven’t done yet. Every misstep. Every failure.

I am a disappointment

The person I admire most, the one person who can make or break me with just a word, has basically let me know that all of my efforts are for naught. I’m doing everything I can to keep afloat, and it’s not good enough. I’m working my tail off, realizing I can’t be all things to all people, but trying to keep everyone happy. And I’m failing. As a wife, a mother, a writer, a person. Failing.

I want to cry and throw up all at the same time.

Because no matter how hard I’ve been trying to keep it all together, no matter what I do, my efforts are invisible. Useless. Ignored. Everything’s my fault, even though I can’t control others’ reactions to things. Even though I can’t really make or break someone’s happiness, because it’s up to them, the responsibility has been laid at my feet anyway. And I’m failing.

I’ve tried many things, but it’s never enough. It’s never the right thing. I’m spent at the end of the day after trying to get my work done and take care of the kid and even occasionally do a little housework or cook dinner. It’s all too much for me. There are too many things left undone, and not enough of me left over.

I don’t know how to fix it. I’ve always been a fixer, but I just don’t know how to fix me.