Doing the dishes.

I don’t ever want to be anything but honest.

So here is an honest story about my struggle with the dishes.

The overflowing sink full of soap suds disguize the patterns that paint the beautiful color and the true peaceful and happy emotions the dirty dishes could posses. Inside the tub lay hidden knifes ready to cut and disfigure my searching and prodding fingeres.

At night, the dishes wake me in a panic, screech, cry and call to me begging me to set them free from their prison in the cupboard, when they really should lay peaceful, quiet, and asleep.

As the hours pass, they get into my head, overwhelm my mind with dread and doubt.

You are bad at dishes. You failed the dishes. You are worthless.

But I am doing the best I can. I am putting my foot down and trying to take control of my house again. I love the dishes, each one hand picked and cherished, but I own them. They are my responsibility. I must do them.

Yet…. my heart still bleeds because of the knife in the murky water that lashes out when I am feeling vaunerable.

At the end of the day, clean or dirty, the dishes are all mine, and I cuddle them the best I can, and care for them with the best of my ability and I am proud that they belong to me.

Oh, and by dishes, I mean my toddler.

❤ Mama Cat

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