I think that if you were to take a peek inside of my head, you would see something that would much resemble Target after Black Friday: everything everywhere, in desperate need of organizing, and too much chaos. There are wheels constantly in motion, trying to get ahead of the game but never quite succeeding.
You would see the woman who tries to be a good wife, who tries to remain calm in those moments where she wants to throw her hands up and walk away. She can’t stand arguments with her husband and apologizes at the first chance she gets. The divorce rate is increasing. She would never want to be that statistic.
There is the mom who does way too much for her kids and gives them more than they need because sometimes she can’t say no. Who is harder on her kids than she should be at times and knows that. She makes promises to herself to do better, and she never feels like she does.
There is the extrovert who loves being invited places and looks forward to seeing people. Who is social and can work a room like she owns it. Who craves a night out, gets it and can’t wait to go it again.
There is the introvert who wants to be by herself. I don’t want to. Leave me alone. I don’t want to be around people. Why would I go out when being home is so much better? I don’t want to talk to a soul.
In there is her as a little girl, never getting a real chance to live life. Pushed down by the people around her. Missing out on a lot and wondering what it is that she has done wrong.
There is the anxious woman who cannot stand conflict. Public situations make her nervous. Life feels like its hanging on by a thread, about to give way at any moment and she has to figure it all out “just in case.” Short tones from people make her assume she isn’t well liked. Unanswered texts mean she has upset someone. The fear of loosing all that she has is always there.
There is the errand runner who constantly makes lists, chores for herself, reminders of things to do. She usually makes things way more complicated, but your kids only have one birthday a year, right?
There is the super uptight, stressed out person. Everyday is something new. Nothing feels easy anymore. Every time she turns around there is another dilemma, something broken, a crisis, a sick kid, dinner not made, a flat tire and something else to pay for.
In my head resides the nicest person you will ever meet. Yet on the kitchen counter are greeting cards that were bought with good intentions that were never sent. There are unmade phone calls to wish congratulations that went unmade. Dinners meant to offer sympathy that were never followed through on. Birthday gifts that will have to wait another year.
In there is an image of herself that she wishes she could be. The old her, not this new “lumpy” her. The years are ticking by, and it is starting to take effect. She will buy anything to stop the aging process, even though she knows that isn’t possible. Every day she pledges to eat healthier; every night she gives in.
There is the person who never says no. Taking on something else would offer new opportunities. Helping out would be a nice thing to do. Inside, however, she regrets it. She is barely able to pull off what she has going on now and she knows this, yet she says “sure.”
I am not sure if it’s the way women are wired or the way the world is around us, but there is a constant pull to push ourselves to the limits. We rarely wave the white flag but instead welcome new stressors. We all have these “messes” inside of our heads. Our minds go ninety-to-nothing and are never quiet. I know my messes will never get cleaned up. More will be added over the years and more things will get added to the piles.
I do know this: we are all constantly fighting battles, growing older, tired like never before and trying to squeeze it all in. While we constantly are trying to organize these messes we have, we need to remember that doing it all isn’t the point. How well you do something isn’t the goal. Leading the pack doesn’t get you a prize.
Showing up and trying is the objective. Your desire is the bottom line.