My office is clean.
I’d show you pictures of this miracle, but as I did not take a “before,” it’s rather pointless. Suffice to say, it wasn’t Hoarders, but it wasn’t good.
And during the cleaning of my office, I had at least two occasions to say, “Who in the name of mercy left me in charge for the last nine months?” Today I will be spending my afternoon at the BMV, getting our car’s expired tags renewed, a task I could have done online months ago had I been capable of paying attention.
But I thought I had things under control. All client work was handled, the rest of the house was relatively clean, I was making it to my appointments. I wasn’t curled in a ball under the kitchen table. Perhaps it would have been better if I was. Perhaps my loved ones would have realized that I was not doing well.
Then again, it’s been a tough year for them, too.
As is typical with me, I didn’t ask for help. I didn’t know I needed help until I’d gotten past needing most of it. It’s not something I’m proud of. It’s not like climbing a mountain and looking back to think, “I did that all myself!” It’s more like walking in a really dangerous neighborhood, stumbling back into safety, and wondering “What the hell was I thinking?!”
I’m safe now, I think. I’m asking for help more, setting boundaries, not pretending that I have it all in hand. I’m digging out. But it’s scary how much I didn’t recognize how bad I was.