Priorities…

I have what an article once coined as “high functioning anxiety.” Something I think most women have felt in one way, shape or form in their lives, but mine was encoded in my DNA just waiting to rear it’s ugly head when I hit puberty, landing me in the emergency room crying for my mom.

As I’ve matured, so have my coping mechanisms, knowledge and ability to reason with myself. The disease has changed and morphed as I’ve grown and acquired new distractions. I don’t have the time anymore to sit on my hands and worry. To let the lump in my throat get in the way of singing my life song.

But, I still have to physically remind myself to breath when I’m sitting idle.

And, I still get hot and sweaty in line at Target because there’s just too much that could go wrong in that breif exchange of items for money (cartwheel, coupons, red card. It’s like they’re trying to kill me).

And, I still can’t sit down at night until every sock has found it’s partner, every dish is put away, every dog hair is vacuumed and every toy is put to bed. And even then, after I’ve watched something gloriously too inappropriate for children, I do a “once over” before dragging myself upstairs. Why?

My husband would say I’m neurotic. I am. I’ll give him that. But, its also so much more. I can’t find peace. I can’t find rest. All those things my God is supposed to give me, but I can’t surrender. My mind holds me captive.

So, I miss opportunities.

Opportunities like the Great Kitchen Blizzard of 2018. when my son single handedly turned our kitchen into a virtual snowglobe thanks to styrofoam packaging he got his hands on.

One broom, 10 minutes of vacumming, a swiffer duster, Moroccan oil, a hairbrush and one bath later and I had almost claimed victory.

Any TV mom would have shrugged her shoulders, laughed and started making snow angels on the floor. I mean, how could I blame him? This is the stuff five year old dreams are made of.

But, then there’s me. I freaked. Completely lost it on the little guy. That voice came out. The low, growly one that scares even me when I hear it. I had to shut my eyes, take deep breaths and talk myself off a ledge.

Quickened breathing, cement legs. Sweaty palms, and slow auditory response… I know where this is headed, but I won’t let it get there. Time to get to work.

To put things into perspective…

I have a house that’s embarrasingly clean. So clean that people comment.

“How do you do it with three kids? ”

“You can clean my house anytime. ”

“Woah, supermom.”

Trust me, if you knew what goes through my mind or what I put myself through to get it looking that way, you wouldn’t be calling me ‘supermom.’ So, I say it’s embarrassingly clean for that reason. I think there’s a bit of shame there. Not so much in the clean house, but in the missed opportunities. Shame in the way I handle the inevitable mess.

So I laugh…

“It may look picked up, but you wouldn’t want to eat off the floors or anything. ”

Liiiieees. You could eat off my floors. You could prep, cook and eat off my floors on any given day. As a matter of fact, my son is doing it right now.

You know those pillsbury commercials with the mom baking with her kids? (styrofoam snow angel mom’s sister, probably). She’s laughing and smearing batter on thier faces amidst a cloud of flour. It makes me shudder.

Or those signs that say “Don’t mind the mess. We’re too busy making memories.” I want to rip that sign off the wall, break it into bits on the floor and then…

AND THEN…

get a broom and profusely apologize as I sweep, mop, and buff all the floors in that persons home.

I showed you, sign.

In reality I hate that sign because I envy the woman who hung it there. I envy her self control and confidence and ability to see what the real priorities are.

I could have been laughing with my son, seeing the mess through his eyes. Fun, floaty, pretty, but I couldn’t make sense of it. I could, however, control it. And him. I hate that my own short comings ruined my son’s magic. I watched him go from wide eyed, innocent and joy filled to

submissive,

apologetic

and upset.

In order to get those opportunities back, I’ve experimented with oils, supplements and a juicy cocktail of Rx pills. So let’s get down to it…

Obviousl, I just shared that if I could control my tendencies, I would, but I can’t… on my own. This is where things get messy as a Christian. Jesus is supposed to be enough for all our struggles, and I truly believe He is, but I also believe he gave us knowledge, power, and a means to try and physically replenish our broken bodies and minds.

Anxiety and depression along with other mental health diseases are just that… diseases.

They are physiological. An inappropriately balanced mix of hormones and chemicals trying to function in a body whose left brain doesn’t always agree with its right.

Now, I’m not saying go out and jump on the first bottle of Zoloft you can get your hands on, but I am saying

DON’T. BE. ASHAMED.

There should be no shame in help. Talk to someone, anyone. Be it God, your best friend or a counselor. Be frank about where your head is that day in conversations with your partner or friend or parent. They aren’t mind readers and they do truly care even if they don’t always understand.

Do what you need to do to get from one day to the next and be your best self so you can adequately do God’s work.

I’m learning that that work, for me right now, is in my home, but it is not housework. With a gentle combination of prayer, practice and my tools for well-being I will overcome. I vow to be unashamed. I vow to surrender… right after I throw away that open faced blow out diaper someone left on the counter. A girl’s gotta have standards.