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I just love these little chats wherein I lay bare my soul. *cracks knuckles. rolls shoulders back*
Here we go. Did you know that at least three-fourths of my waking hours [possibly, very possible more like seven-eighths, or maaaaybe even nine-tenths] I spend thinking I might be going crazy. Racing thoughts is a symptom of mental illness. I think millions and millions of things constantly every second all the time and I often want a vacation from my own mind. And I think this makes me a genius or prime drug addict potential.
I have two toenails that fell off after my last downhill race, one of which ripped off while I was wake surfing in Utah Lake. Toenails falling off post-race is normal for me. Not normal was the infection I got in the one. I blame Utah Lake for that. I've spent the last several years since we got a boat lying to myself, telling myself that lake isn't the teeming bacterial cesspool that it is. No more. Utah Lake you are warm, but gross.
There are a few easy, easy homemaking tasks that I avoid because I have led myself to believe they are incredibly difficult. As I carry a laundry basket of clean clothes upstairs and into my room I often am thinking "this will be so hard to fold these clothes. So hard. The hardest thing I have ever done. The thought of folding the laundry is sucking the life force from me." And then I fold the laundry, which takes a total of five minutes, and immediately I give myself a mental pat on the back. "You are amazing! You can do hard things!" This is how I have survive the weary life of stay-at-home motherhood for nigh on thirteen years.
This whole summer I have only wanted to read long, epic, fantasy fairytales. I've read a few other books in between, and even have a late library book of a different genre that I am insisting to myself that I finish before returning, but really I just want to read another DAUGHTER OF THE FOREST.
Sometimes, when my emotions are too angry, too big, too explosive, I go to the creek across the street and throw rocks. I think of the thing that is upsetting me, I transfer that negative thought into the rock, the ugly, gray little rock and I throw it as hard as I can. Sometimes even with my left arm, which is hysterical because those arm muscles are practically nonexistent and definitely not coordinated. And then I end up laughing. Laughing so hard I usually cry. It. Is. Awesome. And perfect self-therapy.
*You may notice that the picture accompanying this post has nothing to do with anything in the post. Thanks for noticing.