Monday, 8 August 2016


Routines are safe. They are life-savers most of the time. When you're stressed, when you're out of your mind with worry, when everything is going wrong, you can count on routines to pull you through. The job sucks, there's too much pressure, but the weekend is around the corner and it unfolds in a reliable, well known set of steps which bring order to chaos. Get up, have breakfast, go out, take the kids to the park, walk, come back home, get the younger one to bed, chill with the older one, make lunch, eat, do some chores, go out again, come home, bathing time, sleeping time, do some more chores, go to bed, wash, rinse, dry, repeat.
Yet sometimes it drives me nuts. It drives me so nuts that I feel I could go out of my skin just thinking about it. I don't want to go to another freaking park, I don't want to pound the same pavements day in day out, I'm so fed up with the same places, same store fronts, same faces... I don't want to clothe, feed, bathe, over and over and over in the same sequence of movements, same times, same way . . . What is so reassuring and welcome at times, becomes so infuriating, insufferable at others.
And I find myself being infuriated more and more so. If things don't go as planned, if any of the routines is harder to execute than usual, if there is an unexpected turn of events, I get so mad. I don't know where the anger comes from, but it surfaces so easily that it catches me off guard at most surprising times. And it is directed at my kids and at my husband most often - the people I love more than life itself. The people I could die for.
I'm lashing out and sometimes it's so bad. I hate myself for it. This creates another spiral, that's bound to produce more anger. I'm sure stress that I've been a lot under recently has something to do with that. But also I think years of not listening to myself, my body, my soul, my needs. Years of not letting go of some things, of not slowing down, of not changing the bad habits, the taking on too much, the having to have everything perfect and no other way, of being righteous, judgemental, wrong.
And, most importantly of not being able to forgive myself for all of it. It all boils down to that. The proverbial guilt and not letting go of it.
So that is what I need to do. Let go. Forgive myself for all the mistakes, the big ones and the small ones, and all in between. And writing it sounds so scary. Let alone doing it.
And I also need new routines. Of the self-loving, self-nurturing kind. Any suggestions?

A long and winding road to self acceptance

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