Sunday meltdowns are always the most fun.
This morning I was determined to clean up the kitchen, which I stupidly thought would involve just wiping the stove down and emptying the dishwasher. Then, after I made 6 trips up and down the stairs taking out recycling, garbage, and the WORST litter box mess ever and realized there were a shitload of dishes to wash and counters to clean and the floor to sweep and the cat was all up in my grill about his litter box now being clean and me not standing next to him while he ate out of his dish, it was all a little too much for me and I had a mental breakdown while making us yogurt parfaits. Something like, “Here is your coffee! And your motherfucking parfait! EAT IT AND LIKE IT” – which I tried to laugh through, but it so didn’t work. Instead, I broke down into giant sobs and cried on my too-good-for-me boyfriend’s shoulder while he listened to me try to tell him all the things I was stressed about, including having a dream that Eddie Izzard was torturing and killing our dog. (my brain doesn’t make a whole lot of sense most of the time)
So this is how almost three months without a FT paycheck, piles of bills, and still not feeling 100% decided to break me around 9:15am this morning. Who knew?
I feel like I don’t say this often enough, but I really, truly don’t know what I would do without all the amazing support I have, the experiences other people (like the awesome Bloggess who created Ms. Juanita the weasel) share, and even my stupid dog — who thankfully didn’t get suffocated by Eddie Izzard in a plastic bag and is just fine.