It’s been a little while since I’ve felt this bad. Since holing up in my room with only my computer and a couple bottles of water seemed like a good plan for the rest of the day.
And all precipitated by the food saver.
See, I wanted to bake cookies this morning. I was feeling fairly decent and while I wasn’t sure that I had the energy to really go full hog on the cookie thing, I thought I might get one batch of chocolate chip for hubby.
But I needed to bring the mixer to the counter to use it and there is no room because the food saver is there.
The food saver is a new addition to our kitchen. It is the purchase MIL consoled herself with while we were on vacation. For whatever reason, the million times I have said that I want to keep this counter clear, so that there is workspace, was apparently not in effect for the foodsaver.
Now, I am at hopeless because I don’t know where to put the fucking thing. My initial thought was that I’ll just find it a home and that will be the end of it. Somewhere it can be stored and used in the same place. Somewhere where it doesn’t take up any of the precious 8 square feet of flat workspace in my kitchen.
That led me to this:
This is not supposed to be the place where food goes to die. I have made that abundantly clear. But there are 3 loaves of bread languishing in near moldy status here, along with english muffins and various chips that no one will ever eat.
And now, I had two things that needed to be fixed.
And apparently two is too many.
I feel ridiculous. I feel stupid. I feel pathetic.
And let me stop you right there. I know it’s the stupid useless brain. I know it’s all stretched out of proportion by a brain that doesn’t work right, meds that fight what they were made to cure and each other, and a family member who insists on doing shit I have asked everyone not to do. I know.
But it doesn’t seem to matter that I know. I’m still a melted pile of tears pathetically laying in bed, locked in what passes for a bedroom around here.
Lest we forget, MIL was supposed to help us put a small addition on our home with the money that she got selling her house. But, she lent the rest of it to her sister. So, she has a huge bedroom and hubby and I live in the little piece of leftover space. The farthest I can get from the catbox while in bed is about 5 feet.
But, I digress.
Hubby is not feeling well. But, he’s outside hanging Christmas lights and in a couple of hours will be leaving for another day of overtime at work.
I have been driven to bed by a foodsaver.
I know that it truly isn’t about the foodsaver. I know that it’s about not being able to control what goes on in my own space. I know that it’s my shitty brain giving me signals that I can’t line up with what’s happening and now I’m hysterical over a foodsaver.
I also know that in this condition I can not tell anyone what is actually wrong. I have to put it off on a “bad day” because no one is going to understand why a foodsaver has sent me to bed with the vapors. I can’t even really explain it to them, because there is only a smidge of logic there.
“Well just move it” the highly logical, sane person will say. Which makes, of course, total sense. So why can’t I just do that?
Because right now, my brain is telling my mind that the thing is evil. That it’s place on my counter top is a plot to make me insane. That there is literally no place in the entire house that I can move that thing to and be ok with that decision. And that my desire to do so isn’t worth the explanations that will be necessary to everyone in the house, although logically I know that no one will care, as long as I am baking cookies.
Let’s please not forget that I forgot to run the dishwasher last night. So what, the sane person says. Well, if I don’t run it at night, then it’s not clean in the morning to empty. If I have to run it in the morning, then I have to find a way to motivate to empty it in the afternoon, which is the wrong time to empty the dishwasher. My schedule says I empty it in the morning NOT the afternoon. Which means that dishes pile up in the sink, because I refuse to empty the dishwasher. And the resulting mess will take days to sort itself out and get me back on my normal schedule.
So, between the foodsaver and the dishwasher, I have failed the household, and myself, in epic ways. I banish myself to my room, where my near hysterical tears do not affect anyone else’s day. If asked, I will say that I’m having a bad day and refuse to explain.
Because, really, how do I explain how devastating this is to someone whose mind works with them, and not against them?