Me, My Life & Why Part 24

Part 24

It started with an email I didn’t open.

Then a laundry pile that became a topographical feature.

Then a bin bag I meant to take out but instead walked past seventeen times like it might develop sentience and deal with itself.

Eventually, the spiral announced itself.

One sock on. One sock missing.

Half a to-do list, abandoned mid-sentence.

The milk went off. The towel smelled weird. The deadline didn’t just whoosh by, it did a full parade past my door.

My brain was full of tabs.

All open.

None loading.

I sat on the floor, holding a teaspoon like it might anchor me.

And I thought: Am I failing again?

Am I lazy?

Am I backsliding?

Am I disappointing every version of myself who thought we were doing better now?

Because the thing no one tells you about healing is that it doesn’t come with a lifetime guarantee. You don’t get a certificate and a punch card and a new personality.

You just… keep trying.

And some days, you fall back into old loops.

Not because you’re broken.

But because you’re tired.

And I was tired.

So I did what I do when my brain is uncooperative and my body is sending signals in six dialects of “nope.”

I cleaned the kitchen in silence.

Then I made toast. Because of course I did.

And I stared at the clock like it might offer life advice.

I wanted someone to come in and say, “Here’s the plot. Here’s the arc. Here’s where this fits into the redemption story.”

But there was no narrator.

No montage.

Just me. Crumb-covered. Overwhelmed. Very much in it.

And then I heard my own voice, sarcastic and quiet:

“You should write about this.”

Later, I thought.

The words echoed.

Do this later.

It’s what I always tell myself.

Respond later. Shower later. Be a person later.

But here’s the twist: I used to think “do this later” was the motto of my failure.

Now I’m starting to think it might be the motto of my survival.

Because “later” is where I breathe.

“Later” is where I pause instead of punish.

“Later” is where I give myself space to be a mess without writing the entire story off as a disaster.

I’ve spent my whole life treating inconsistency as a flaw.

Now I’m learning it’s just… a pattern.

A rhythm.

A wave I can ride instead of drowning under.

Alex came over that evening.

Didn’t ask what I got done.

Didn’t judge the mess.

He just brought snacks, sat cross-legged on my floor, and asked if I wanted to talk or be left alone but near someone.

I said “both.”

He said “cool.”

And we watched a documentary about solar flares because why not.

Later that night, while brushing my teeth (on time, for once), I caught my reflection and realised:

I’m not failing.

I’m adjusting.

Constantly.

Clumsily.

Courageously.

And yeah, maybe I’m a bit of a disaster.

But I’m my disaster.

And I’m not trying to fix her anymore, just love her where she is, even when that’s under a pile of laundry, in an overstimulated brain, halfway through another list I’ll probably never finish.

There’s no neat conclusion here.

No “and then she figured it all out.”

Just me, learning that the question “Am I still failing?” doesn’t need an answer.

Because maybe it was never the right question to begin with.

Maybe it’s just: Am I still showing up?

And the answer is always: yes. In my own way. On my own time.

Even if I do it later.