did you notice those crickets? yeah, that was me. silent. ha. hardly ever happens. interesting. i’m happily emailing my sober people, just not writing as much here. busy with sloth followed by catering this week. and my job #1 was busier than it has been.
At the end of the night, last night, when Mr. B and i relate the best part of our days, and the parts we’d like to change, I said that i’d had a good day because I’m a much happier person when i have enough to do — not too much, not pressurized — but when i have projects that are beyond my own self-generated ones like ‘clean the fridge’. I told him i just ‘feel better’ when i’m doing more things (job #1 was busy yesterday + catering = a nicely full day).
What this really means is I feel better when I’m productive. Not just busy for no reason. Not stressed and overtired. Better When Happily Puttering Away at Things That Please Me.
Then as i write this, i realize that the same tasks on a different day could have made me irritated. It’s probably not the tasks, it’s probably me. Yesterday I was quite happy to make potato salad. But i really like the client, and she’s so happy with all the food she gets. If it’s just me making potato salad for ME, I’m all like meh, boil potatoes, boil eggs, make mayonnaise, chop pickles, chop celery. who cares.
oh god, am i so transparent that i’ve just written the truth that is me? I’ll make potato salad for YOU but I won’t make it for myself. yeah. there we go.
do i really really love a clean house? yes. do i give that to myself? no. do i resent when my husband doesn’t give it to me? yes. do i think of paying someone to do it for me? sometimes. Have you heard my audio about cinnamon toast? oh. god. this is the same thing.
This is the ‘self-care’ thing that we boozers suck at. Before my epic drinking began, I used to make dinner for myself, single girl, i planned my meals and made grocery lists and everything. When i was single girl, i made potato salad. I didn’t see it as ‘too much work’.
then the drinking became ‘daily’, and then Every Fucking Thing was too much work, because it kept me from drinking. Clean the fridge or drink? Wolfie would win that one quite easily. Make dinner with all the lovely ingredients I’ve just purchased that are now sitting on the counter, or drink? Wolfie would win that one too. Shove the food back into the back of the fridge and call for pizza.
I had only one way of administering self-care. it was to pour a bottle of wine on my head.
for one day, today, for right now, for this minute, i’m going to try to figure out what I can do that would make me feel good. like, really good.
And even if i have to mechanically go through a list of things, i’m going to find something. If the first treat/reward doesn’t work, it doesn’t mean that my sober toolbox/treatbox is broken. It just means I need to use a different treat.
First up. OK. I have some really nice freshly squeezed OJ. Yes, it’s true, i did make it for a client, but there’s some left over for me.
What? That doesn’t count? I have to ‘do something FOR me?’ fuck, you’re tough.
By Me. For Me.
OK, i’ll windex my glass desk. It’s been months. and I’ll make some nice little piles of receipts and tax things. and i’ll put the old newspapers into recycling. and i’ll se the timer. I think it’ll take me about 12 minutes. Go.