Temporary? Insanity

I’m terrified. I don’t feel it in the chest tightening, rapid breathing, dilated pupils sort of way, but the fear is there. I write about it often here, try to trap it in my little box of words so I can define it and weaken it. I can laugh at it, here in my safe place. I can smile wryly and shake my head at how silly I can be.

I couldn’t stop moving today. Up and bustling from the moment Claira’s first morning stretch-squeaks escaped her wicker bassinett. I went on the school field trip. Came home and did as much in a day as I used to do in a week (no casual exaggeration that, I mean it quite sincerely). At the end of the day I pause (oh so briefly) to reflect on all that I have accomplished. Dishes caught up on. Laundry caught up on. The main floor completely tidy and organized. Closets cleaned out, and numerous loads of stuff shuffled about from floor to floor of our three story home.

My legs are aching. Have been since 2pm but I couldn’t, wouldn’t stop. Claira slept for four hours this afternoon and I was on my feet for all of them. And after the kids were tucked into bed I looked for something else to do, and the possible projects flitted through my mind so rapidly I felt dizzy and clutched hold of the kitchen counter for support. I knew I needed to stop but I didn’t want to.

I forced myself to. The couch. A book. A quiet soft place to fold myself up into. But my legs began to twitch and I bounced up again. Cleaned some more. Why couldn’t I stop?

And the answer appeared in my mind like a gift. It was the fear. Fear of so many things. Fear of eating. That if I stopped working I would start eating and never ever stop. Not so irrational a fear as it might seem for me, the recovering binge eater. Also fear of never starting again. I have wasted more than hours, you see. I have wasted years. Years and years of lazing about when I could have been learning, striving, improving…WORKING. I have regarded work as the enemy and our sudden friendship feels uneasy to me.

I don’t want to go back to the me I was. The me who hated to sweat. Who thought aching muscles were whine-worthy and that doing paperwork was something you did only when you couldn’t find something you desperately needed. I didn’t like her! I didn’t like the me that I was and now that I’m becoming someone different, evolving at a pace that it’s almost too much, too painful, too overwhelming, I am TERRIFIED.

I don’t trust myself. I don’t trust myself to stop and then start again. To not start slacking again and watch the mess of my former life encroach upon the new one I’m trying to carve out here.

My time away from my family was life altering. It taught me what matters. I have been so much happier since then. Content and grateful for what I have. Thrilled to be home and be making a home. But what if? Oh the cursed what if! What if it was only life altering for a month or two. Only life altering till I decide working isn’t really all that joyful and satisfying. What if I slide back into the muck and the gloom – the dark place where I used to live and pretend my days away?

I know that I might. I know that I might not. And the uncertainty of that – knowing it’s my choice but not trusting myself to choose right – it’s driving me mental. Frightening me.

And as I’ve written this I’ve finally sat still for an extended period of time (except my fingers, that is), and I feel so, so sleepy suddenly.

I’m scared of that too. Scared of going to sleep because I don’t know who I might be when I wake up.

I’ve suddenly had a thought. Growing up would be a lot easier if I weren’t so prone to psycho-analyzing myself. If I could just breathe and be. Just live.

But how do I do that?