It's not good to be alone with your thoughts, not for hours at a time.
I realized this with depressing clarity on Saturday as I spent yet another full day in front of the wood splitter. The throaty rattle of the machine obliterated all noise but the scrambled negative voices in my own head as the hydraulic wedge pushed through block after block of wood like it was processed cheese.
My weaknesses, my bad traits, ran through my head on a loop, piling up on each other until tears flowed in the sawdust.
I'm mean to people. I'm fickle. I want friends but I push them away.
I'm angry. Too emotional. Judgemental. Who made me the goddamned queen of morality? Like I have any reason to feel superior – HA.
I'm a terrible mother – I must be. And how do I deal with my children? I want to hold them close, but I don't want to crowd them. I want them to want me on their terms – but are they wanting the same thing?
I say I'm a writer but what have I written? My novel has sat untouched for so long I barely remember where I left off. What a fake I am. Charlatan!
And diet? What diet? When the chips were down last week I fairly flew home to the comfort of crackers smothered in margarine and cheese. Cracker after cracker slid past my tongue, without me even pausing to taste it. Like a dog. Feeding until the frenzy inside quieted and then looking in the cupboard for more, always more.
I can only live one day at a time. Be the best person I can be on that day. It's all I can do. All any of us can do. That, and check my anti-depressant medication – maybe I need an adjustment.
Or maybe I just need to do something else besides freaking splitting wood.