A Glorious Mess

Next week, I will return to work, and people will ask me how my holidays were. I will respond that they were fine because I’ve learned I cannot tell the truth: that this break was not long enough to recover from all that went before, let alone be ready for what is to come.

This holiday season has been The Journey of Too Much – and, sometimes, Too Little. Too much for me to handle, too little from others. I have wanted to scream and rock and tug out what is left of my rapidly diminishing hair. Except, if I did that, nothing would improve. The house would simply slide into the abyss that I currently occupy, and I’m not sure anyone would even notice, accustomed as they are to me doing everything. House is a mess? Mum didn’t clean it. She’s probably been watching Netflix all day. Even the act of reminding everyone to do the jobs they are meant to do is another layer on top of an already crushing load.

This morning, in the shower, fixing my hair that someone else messed up, the ‘Too Much’es swirled through my brain, leaving me unable to focus on what I was meant to be doing. The same dropping of focus happened a few weeks ago when I was so confused about what year we were going into that I started throwing out food and medicines with 2024 expiry dates. I was momentarily convinced we were heading for 2025 until something reminded me it was still 2023 and that 4 follows 3, not 5. I see the humour in that, really, I do, except now that’s another job to add to my list – replacing the items I accidentally ditched.

It is too much to be everything to everyone every day. To do twice the work of others, if not more. To pull myself out of the remembering that floats in front of me when I don’t want it to. To deal with NDIS providers and support workers and find exercise physiologists when I have no time to do the stuff I want to do because of all the ‘have to do’s.

It is hard to know my son goes without because I am too overwhelmed by the things I am expected to do that someone with greater capacity than me should be handling. But all everyone does is add to the list of Too Much. Too much to decide. Too much to understand. Too much to deal with multiple online platforms while never quite knowing what I can and can’t ask for. Too much to have been forced into review too early and without proper process and to have had my son’s planned respite funds taken back. Too much to have continually complained when nobody cares and nothing I said or wrote fixed the matter.

It is too much to constantly feel like I am the only one who cares. It was too much yesterday to hear that my son’s brand-new car, which was supposed to stop the string of faulty engines, was hit by someone due to roadworks, and again, we are back to cars in places that are hard to reach and having to arrange transport. I cried then, in anger and frustration and empathy. And this morning, I took him to the train, even though he didn’t ask last night, because none of this is his fault. But still, the weight is on me to track it, and fix it, and keep an eye on it. Again.

Next week, I will return to having to share my time between work and home and church, weighed down by all I didn’t do. I didn’t organise the doll room. I didn’t sort out what craft stuff I wanted to keep. I didn’t do any scrapbooking, or calligraphy, or any of the artistic things that I enjoy doing. I didn’t tidy the study. I didn’t scan the archived church newsletters that have sat next to my desk for two years. I didn’t edit my book. I didn’t update my blog as often as intended because I couldn’t settle on what to write about. I didn’t throw out enough to deal with everything that was brought in. Instead, I sat around, feeling stunned and tired and heavy and overwhelmed. Unable to create, or decide, or conquer, because I couldn’t find my feet or my words.

But on Tuesday, I will rock up to work and smile (behind my mask) and pretend because they pay me to be a certain person, even if that isn’t really me. Afterwards, I will go home and stare at the TV, wasting what time really is mine because being back into my usual routine will sap my energy and consume my thoughts, and I cannot find that place where I can handle everything – or even anything.

Work. Home. Family. NDIS agencies. Church. So many ‘Too Much’es (or ‘Not Enough’s).

(The photo at the top is the Christmas card one of my funny sons made for me.)