I did my own damned dishes, at least the ones that existed before the ice cream and grilled cheese eating. Success.
I did not, however, get out of bed except to take care of my baby girl until the shame of anyone seeing the house looking still-tossed made me open my eyes. Then, I bribed two seven-year-olds to make the front room pretty. They did, and because they could do that, I did the damned dishes and cooked up some grilled cheese. Hiding in bed, failure. Happy small people feeling like badasses for getting five bucks, success. Food, success.
The sleep did me no good at all. So tired, still, that I hurt. Failure.
Yesterday, I silently sobbed, bewildered, through a grad student presentation. I can’t read my notes, longhand. Forgot my computer, and my hands had to stay at my face to hide what was happening on the inside, anyway. I skipped an amazing reading last night, for fear of crying at David Sedaris. The ticket was free, but I’m not. Failure times three or four.
Tonight, a poetry reading at school with my love, and a confession of my state of mind. He understands. Success. Progress?
Let’s only count that last one.