I had every intention to handle this like a warrior.
A paint-covered, ladder-climbing, putty-knife-wielding warrior.
That’s not exactly how it all went.
After
Yes. That’s the after. I couldn’t do any more.
It looks like a preschool class painting their first flat for a school play.
But it was the best I could do. Multiple trips to fetch supplies I couldn’t afford. Almost as many panic flushes. I was done.
My best is not much. Obviously. I can write you a poem about patching a ceiling but I can’t do it in practice.
Was this mess at least better than when I started?
Before
Maybe.
I don’t know anymore.
The biggest hurdle was that I was going to handle this myself. And by handle, I meant just getting on with it. Not whining and whinging and lambasting my self-worth with the same enthusiasm that I used when wielding the blade of a paint scraper and the sanding block.
That hurdle, I instead smacked and took down with me as I tumbled to the ground. I sent endless texts begging for encouragement. To the point where I was disgusting myself, so I can’t image how pissed the receiver of my depressing messages must have been. I was so furious at myself that I didn’t know how to do this, how to fixed this, that I failed at something else. I
I do this every time. Every time. No matter what bobble or hardship or uncalm sea I encounter. Every little thing. Every time. And this wasn’t even a crisis. When I came home to find this, now that was a crisis.
(For texture and amplification, it was -2 degrees Fahrenheit at the time outside the house.)
Did I handle both of these problems?
Sort of.
The heat now works and there’s not as much of a crater situation on the ceiling.
Did I beat myself up about my complete buggering of these projects?
Maybe.
Did I deserve that?
No comment.
Did I then beat myself up about my weight and my complete lack of musical or artists talent and my shit parenting job and…
Fine. You bet your sweet ass I did. Gave myself a proper run down.
I really need to stop this. It helps no one. It makes me feel worse and by doing it again, and again, and fucking again, I will push away the precious few that are willing to support me when I have legitimate crises, not just a few floating flakes of glossy enamel.
If I can kinda fix paint and more or less manage a broken furnace, why can’t I give myself a break?
That should be the easy part. Just taking away the labor I swing day in and day out that effectively chips mw down to a rubbled pile of nothing.
Even if I have nothing good to replace the absence.
A wrong act continually enforced to the detriment of all is worth the struggle to repeal it.
The floor is open to motions.
Floor…
Floor…does that look like a hole in my floor???
Dark Yarn Productions 