Yesterday, there was a little wedding in England. I don’t know if you saw it or maybe you heard about it. A prince and an actress got married. You know the story. It directly affects my life in absolutely no way, and yet seeing the pictures and just knowing the story left me with the feeling that perhaps I should be doing more with my life. Am I becoming a princess? No. Am I moving to a different country? No. Am I even wearing not my pajamas today? Hell no. It’s fucking Sunday. I digress though. Marriage isn’t a goal of mine, but not being forgotten is. Just like the song Billy Idol passed on because and Simple Minds got.
In lieu of breaking up with my person to pursue a relationship with a prince in order to become a princess (see Sugar Tits, I do care), I cleaned and cooked and wrote and read and watch conspiracy theory videos. You know super productive shit. I even wrote a to do list, but as getting dressed isn’t on it, I’ve remained in my pjs. That and I can’t be assed to put on underwear today. Right moving on to something a bit more important, my self-loathing. Is self-loathing the correct word? I don’t know. I mean I don’t hate myself. I just think I could be doing more than taking naps and eating waffles. So whatever feeling word that is.
Wanting to make an impact on the world has always been important to me, and I don’t want to be forgotten. But if I want to make a change, I need to start with the man in the mirror. (You all saw that coming, right? I mean it’s pretty fucking obvious.) Well, as my person constantly reminds me, I don’t have a dick nor balls and I’m in fact a woman. But MJ didn’t sing about the woman in the mirror. And as today’s blog is rapidly becoming an 80s songs references galore, I had no choice. But whatever. You get the point. Because of that mother fucking wedding yesterday, I decided to start taking care of my damn self and do the things that are good for me-like making waffles and caramel.
I’m mature enough to know that when I get restless and not feel like I’m doing enough, I need to start taking care of myself. Fuck. I’m mature enough to know that the near constant butterflies in my stomach for the past couple of months mean I should have started going to the gym. I just get so wrapped up in my own bullshit and can’t pull my head out of my ass long enough to put away my clothes. Once someone I know made an analogy of getting mentally healthy is like when a baby cries when you change its nappy. (We were in England. So just in case nappy=diaper.) They’re uncomfortable in their own shit, but it’s uncomfortable getting clean. So, yeah, this is me crying while I’m changing my own damn nappy. Because I’ve sat in my own shit far too long.
Speaking of which, I need to check on the potatoes I’m cooking. Because it’s fried chicken and mashed potatoes for dinner tonight. But first I’ll finish making this blog. It’s hard to take care of yourself when your natural reaction is to talk shit about yourself. I’m doing what I can. It takes so much more energy to do things when anxiety and depression are fighting to dominate your life but you can’t let them win because you don’t want to be homeless. I should have made that last sentence personal. My depression and my anxiety are fighting to control my life, but I can’t let them win, because I don’t want to be homeless so I go to work. Also, I can’t let them win, because I know what it was like last time I let them take control, and it was too dark. And I question whether or not I would survive it again. Right. Potatoes. Chicken. Doing stuff.