you're doing great, bitch

how to deal

“How is it still January?” my 14 year-old asked. We were driving home from Ikea and the hardware store, the car packed with hooks and paint, shelves and caulk, supplies for another week of hardcore household tasks. After 10 years in our Silver Lake rental, we moved last Monday. The new house — a boxy ‘90s townhome — needs work. Setting it up for supreme comfort has become a near-maniacal family-wide mission. It’s all I think about. Or at least it’s all I try to think about, a disassociative coping mechanism for sure, blocking out the outside world as I build a little corner of safety and sanctuary, as I get my footing after weeks of chaos and change.

I’ve given myself tendinitis from all the building. I wake up every morning with swollen, aching hands. I’m fixing tangibles like broken switch plates because I can’t fix anything else.