Hello Kitty will not win this war.

I would like to talk a little about defeat this afternoon. I would like to talk about this today because, I feel quite defeated. My house is a mess. A real bona fide mess. I am very sorry about that. Truly. Am I embarrassed or ashamed of myself? Absolutely. I cannot blame this on my motherhood, or my job, or a messy husband. I can only blame myself and it’s a long time coming.

I have been like this my whole life. My mom gave up hope, my sister suffered in silence while we shared a bedroom. My roommates talked behind my back. I still remember the neat desk of the girl next to me in grade school. Her things were very neat, tidy and covered in absurd amounts of Hello Kitty stuff, and this was about 28 years ago. Damn you, Japan with your ingenious and diabolical money making schemes. A kitten’s face. With a bow. Who knew?

Anyway. I would look at others and think they were in on something I wasn’t. I thought organization and cleanliness came easy to everyone. Then I thought that it must be a pride thing. Other people must take pride in themselves far more than I do. That must have been it. I think that some of that is very true. I am extremely self-deprecating. I always have been. And when you make yourself, your foils, and your pain the focus of your existence and the center of laughs, you tend to get numb to the fact that what you say, sticks.

It wasn’t until I got my first job that I realized it could be something physiological and chemical. For the first time in my life I had health insurance and money to see a doctor. I was diagnosed with ADD and put on Ritalin. This was when ADD was new and trendy and everyone had it. My apartment was spotless, my work was done on time and perfect, and my eye twitched and fluttered like a butterfly on crack. I stopped the meds and just stayed as active as I could for someone in their early 20’s and flew under the radar at work, with friends, at life.

Fast forward to today. I like what I do. I space out a lot. I mean a whole lot. My house is falling apart. Laundry looks like a word jumble puzzle to me and has brought me to tears. I scrub a pot, or so I think, and it’s just as dirty when I finish as when I started it. I have anxiety attacks when I even think about taking piles of clothes and putting them in drawers, because when they are in drawers, I cannot see them and find them when I need them. I start to do one small thing and I see something out of the corner of my eye somewhere else and compulsively move to that project. In the meantime, nothing gets done.

My time of flying under the radar is coming to a close. I do not want to live like this anymore. So, I won’t. There will be no Oprah moment, no grandiose self congratulatory speech about defeating my demons; no New Age “I love myself!” pep talk. Defeat, just like everything else, including victory, is temporary.

I will go back to the doctor and talk stuff out, take some tests, and most likely get back on the dope. I will accompany drugs with therapy, because I think it’s only fair to help those drugs along if you are forced to take them.

I will hope that there are many others like me so I don’t feel so savage and uncouth. Maybe I will feel some pride and accomplishment in doing the best I know I can do. I don’t want to be perfect. I just want to mentally feel like I am working for my paycheck instead of winning the lottery. Thank you Bright Eyes for such a kick ass analogy and such a pretty song. Hello Kitty, I am going to beat your smug little ass.

Bebe

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