A pile of dishes sit haphazardly on the counter and they mock me. I should have done these two days ago, but something was always pulling me away and I would forget about them until we were hungry enough that I had to prepare a meal. So I would wash enough to make that meal. And they would sit there.
As I sit here and write this, my husband kisses my neck and suggest we go the store. I resist the urge to pull away and give him “the eye”. This shopping trip is a necessary one and putting it off is just one more way of procrastinating.
But I need to do the dishes. I need to scrub the counters, sweep the floor, and mop it.
I look down at the floor underneath my own feet. I must vacuum.
I berate myself for putting off the housework. I realize that I have allowed myself to slip into that old darkness and feel the start of depression. Not only depression, but now anxiety. I would be so embarrassed if friends or family were to stop over for an impromptu visit only to find that my house has turned into that very house that has always disgusted me.
I write out a list and my husband leaves to get the groceries. Here I sit, tapping away at the keys and wishing I could write all day.
I’ll talk to you later.
I am doing the dishes.