Self-Sabotage

In about a week's time, I will be sitting at a beach on an island off the southern coast of the United States, delighting in the warm completeness of having all of my three children around me. It will be marvelous!

But you wouldn't know it by the looks of me tonight. I am doing what I do so often...sabotage...sabotage...sabotage my own good times. There is packing to be done, a house to be cleaned, arrangements to be made...yet I do nothing. I know myself. I know that I do better when things are in order. I am happier when I have ample time to prepare. I do not thrive in last minute rush hour. I know that the way to avoid frantic stress and last minute exhaustion is to take care of things this weekend...but I don't.

I look around the messy house, the wilted flowers in their two inches of milky water, the piles of unfolded laundry on each available bed, the stack of bills that beg attention and I turn away instead. I read Pat Conroy and let his dark and lyrical words push and pull my memories and emotions like his own Lowcountry tides. Reading this book is dangerous, I know, but I simply can't resist him. It would be better if I packed a suitcase, or cleaned my bathroom, or threw away those godforsaken sunflowers...they're bringing me down.

What's it going to take for me to do good for me? I can visualize the way that I want things to be, but I refuse to take the steps necessary to arrive there.

I need to talk.