(Not my image)
I’m not feeling too great. I’m failing at every aspect of my tiny life. My relationship just failed. Work is not going as well as I need it to, both to be financially stable and as busy as I want to be. I have no social life. If I read another post about how hard it is to handy success I will scream. I’m pretty sure it beats handling failure after failure, hands down.
I managed to do my laundry, which requires leaving my house and walking the 8 blocks to the laundromat. I even managed to put my clothes away, albeit shoved haphazardly into already messy drawers. It’s better than the heap on the floor I almost settled for. I also managed to eat something despite having no appetite. Maybe I’ll lose the damn perimenopause pounds that have crept back onto my ass, making my clothes feel like sausage. I even managed to shower!
I guess I should feel good about managing these things. I could have failed to do them. But it feels embarrassing to call that success. It’s just managing the tiny tasks that keep life from piling up. To just keep getting by.
I wish that getting by was enough for me. I wish I felt like anything about me actually mattered, even in a small way. I need to keep going and without any real markers of progress it’s harder every day.
But at least I’ve got clean underwear now. It’s a start.