Sunday struggles - no rest for the wicked

I should leave my apartment. I should be out doing things. Many things. Anything.

I told myself this morning it’s Sunday and a good day to take it easy and hang out with the birds.

Part of my mind is racing and telling me I need to go faster. The other part wants to curl up on the couch under a blanket and not move for a long time.

I’d smoke more weed to calm myself down but I already feel fried.

I’ve been doing really well these last few months and feeling stable. But today I’m having a hard time believing the sign I have on my bedroom wall:

The time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time.

This is certainly not a concept I was taught growing up. I was raised by endlessly busy women, multitasking every second of the day. My impression was that to be an adult was to be always moving, always doing and never stopping. What is easy to forget are the late afternoon crashes both my Mom and Grandmother had. They fell into bed after lunch and woke up just in time to make dinner.

I am on a mini-vacation from working crazy hours at the office. I want to be able to take it easy without feeling a compulsion to run out the door.

I start getting nervous when I’m in this mood because if I get agitated I’m likely to flee the apartment. Fleeing is dangerous when you’re in a giant boat of a car and driving much faster than the speed limit.

My boyfriend has asked me over and over today if I am okay. I think this question universally makes people nervous. At least it makes me nervous.

When I was napping under the fuzzy brown blanket earlier, trying to reset my brain, I thought that it was sad I didn’t love myself. All day I have felt like I was doing the wrong thing, annoying the man I love and acting like a moron. For example, this morning I made the “idiotic” mistake of spilling coffee grounds in the wrong part of the machine. This was an unacceptable failure according to the mercilessly critical part of my consciousness.

The critical voice in my head tells me I should be able to quickly and perfectly make a cup of coffee. It also tells me I should be busier; I should be doing more on my day off and on every other day. I should be going to graduate school, cranking out poems/essays and short stories and saving for a house. I have learned from therapy that this behavior stems from my belief that I am not worthy of love unless I am perfect. Reflecting upon this brings me relief because I am less worried that I am having a bipolar mood swing. Rather, I am having a reaction to the clash between the way I want to live and the way I was taught to live.