I woke up. I was waiting for the alarm, but I didn’t hear it, really. But I still woke up. It was six fifteen. Dillon goes to work at seven.
I got up. It wasn’t freezing, but I went to start a fire to get the house warm. There was no kindling and I tried to get the logs to start with a few pieces of scratch paper, but I couldn’t.
I started crying. I felt like a failure. A miserable failure. Not only on the fire. Dillon had been chiding me the last few days that I never got firewood. And the night before he made dinner because I was tired and ornery. And I didn’t do the dishes.
And I wasn’t a good enough mom, of course. I watched too much television. I wasn’t a good writer because I didn’t dedicate myself to it.
I made Dillon a lunch while I was sobbing. I cooked breakfast and I was still crying.
Finally, I got Dillon to ask me what was wrong, and I talked, and he held me and I stopped crying.
But that failure feeling is still there. I can’t keep my house clean enough. I don’t do enough. I’m too lazy. The critical voices hit me over the head again and again.
It’s hard because there is almost no one to tell me I’m doing a good job except myself. Dillon can try, but I don’t believe him because he usually comes home to a messy home and dinner isn’t started. MM can’t talk and she always wants more from me than I give her.
Those are the only people I see on a regular basis.
I try to change up my to-do list, expect a little bit less of myself, live more in the moment.
But the truth is, I don’t have an answer to those critical voices. Because I really should just do better.
But I am trying. And I’ll keep trying and working on, and I guess I’m not a failure because I haven’t given up yet.
Feeling much better now. I finally remembered something I shouldn’t have forgotten: I can do everything with the Lord’s help. And he does help me. And I am a miserable failure on my own, but I’m never on my own. I always have help. Always.