A Soft Day in the Middle of the Storm

Today was beautifully simple.

I reorganized my closets, did a little cleaning, and made a batch of homemade chili crisp (chilis, sun-dried tomatoes, garlic, shallots, in oil). It made the whole camper smell amazing.

Managed to catch up on my journaling, prepping for June and getting my thoughts down on paper. I even prettied it up a bit, which makes me way more excited to keep using it.

I subscribed to The Angry Therapist podcast and downloaded a few episodes to try out. Looking forward to seeing if it sticks.

Rain rolled in by the afternoon, so no pool time – but I took that as a sign to slow down even more. I did a little digital organizing and caught up on season one of White Lotus.

No drama. No people. No pressure. Honestly, I could use more days like this.

Cursed, I Swear

I swear to Bejuebus, I’m cursed… or something

On Thursday, while helping out the GOM, I managed to pull a muscle in my back.

It was scream-worthy. Walking turned into hobbling, and driving? Forget it. Twisting, even turning my neck, was out of the question.

I pushed through anyway, gritting my teeth to get things done. The landowners I’m housesitting for were due back Friday night, and I needed to make the most of having water, laundry, and all the “civilized” amenities.

Somehow, I got everything finished.

Then Saturday morning rolled around… and no sign of them. It’s not unusual for them to get in super late at night and I like to let them sleep in, so I wasn’t aware they hadn’t come back until after I had fed the horses.

Turns out, they “forgot” to tell me they changed their plans. They won’t be back until Monday.

I was a little peeved, not gonna lie. But honestly? Once the frustration passed, I realized, this is exactly what I needed. Two unscheduled days off. A break I’ve been desperately craving.

The universe might know what it’s doing after all.

Cue fantasy: poolside, sunshine, Terry Pratchett, maybe a rather strong fruity drink, and absolutely no responsibilities.

Cue reality: AC starts making terrifying noises.

Now, if you’ve ever lived in Florida, you know we have a long list of deadly threats, gators, snakes, wild hogs, Florida Man – but nothing strikes fear into our hearts quite like losing AC in the middle of summer.

My AC cleaning kit is back on the land, but I made do. Up the ladder I went, twisting and reaching overhead (yes, with a pulled back!), giving it a DIY deep clean while trying not to cry.

An hour later, I had it back together. I ran it in fan mode to defrost (because yes, somehow it had frozen in 90°F heat). It even spat ice at me. Cool, cool, cool.

Finally, I made it to the pool. I cracked open Guards! Guards! and drifted. Floating. Reading. Sunshine. For a moment or two, it was bliss.

Then came the paper wasp.

Then another.

Three stings and a mild existential crisis later, I was back inside.

Fun fact: paper wasps can recognize faces. I learned that between stings #2 and #3. So when one of them fell in the water? I didn’t save it. I usually would—but I was feeling personally targeted.

Still, I’m trying to reframe. Maybe all the chaos of the last few weeks had to unravel in its own weird way. Maybe the universe knew I needed a slow, messy unravel rather than a hard stop.

Either way, I got my break. Sort of. In the most Florida way possible.

Little Wins & Lingering Edges

Solid sleep last night, finally!

I started the day at 6:20am and honestly, just being able to say “I’ll take it” without sarcasm feels like progress.

The GOM’s car is finally fixed, so that’s a win. But of course, there’s a twist. He’s meant to leave a cleaned site by Thursday at 11am, and I’ve told him I need him gone Wednesday so I can prep the site. He’s not listening. I’d even reshuffled my own plans to help him on Wednesday, thinking it was his last day, but now he’s decided to leave Thursday, and my patience is wearing thin.

I get it. He’s tired. He wants his autonomy. But I’m drawing boundaries and he’s stepping right over them. I’m trying to be kind. I’m trying to be compassionate. But all I want to do is yell, “WILL YOU JUST LEAVE?!”

I know this can’t happen again. Next time, we need to have a clear conversation before I agree to help. He has to accept giving up some control of the process if he’s going to lean on others. But today’s not the day for that talk. I need to be calm. I need to be rested. And I need my boundaries in place before I enforce them.

Tonight, it’s just laundry, prep, and keeping myself steady as I get ready to head back to the land this weekend.

When Rest Feels Unsafe

Woke up at 7:30am with about 3.5 hours of sleep under my belt. No surprise, my body’s basically throwing a tantrum. “If you won’t rest, I’ll take your function,” it says. Fair enough.

Motivation? Gone. But honestly, that makes sense. I’ve been daydreaming about taking two full days off to reset. Not some half-assed break where I’m still mentally spinning, I mean actual, purposeful rest. But I kept putting it off, and now my brain’s decided to go on strike.

Last week I started noticing how whiny and negative my posts felt. It was real, it was valid… but it wasn’t how I wanted to be seen. I was spiraling. The goal posts kept moving, and yeah, that was happening, but ALSO, I let it happen. I couldn’t find my way out of the chaos, and the more I leaned into the victim mindset, the worse it got.

What’s wild is that I knew what I needed all along. I kept whining about not getting those two reset days. But I still couldn’t prioritize myself. Even when I recognized that I was falling into old, unhealthy coping patterns, I told myself it was okay. That I’d stop when I could. That I was practicing “self-forgiveness.”

But maybe I needed all of that to get here.

So today, I stopped. I packed a bag, grabbed a book and some music, and wandered down to the pool. I brought a notepad too, just in case my brain tried to hijack the peace with intrusive tasks or to-dos.

It took me two hours to actually get in the pool. I’d stand up… then sit back down. Eventually, I realized the truth: I didn’t feel safe enough to relax.

That hit hard.

Eventually, I did get in. I got maybe 20 minutes of reading in before my brain checked out again. I couldn’t retain a word.

I know this isn’t sustainable. I know I need to stop.
I just don’t know when I’ll be able to.

Fuck It, Apparently

As predicted, GOM’s leaving date has shifted… again. Now it’s Monday. The catch? His site has to be cleared by 11am. The problem? I can’t clear his site until he leaves. So, I’ll do what I can, and if the rest doesn’t get done in time, well… he’ll have to deal with the consequences. I’m not a miracle worker.

On a more positive note, I’ve done everything I can. Every non-daily item has been boxed, bagged, or stacked neatly into containers. Why a man who doesn’t cook needs three sets of pans in a 20ft trailer is absolutely not my business, and I’m not asking.

His daily-use stuff? Sorted. Cleaned. Put in sensible places. The only things left are the ones he’s actively guarding like a dragon hoarding gold. If he wants to do them himself, fine. I’ve done my part. Actually, I’ve done more than my part. Not just for now, but for future seasons too.

Yeah, I still have concerns. A few red flags waving in the background. But I can’t control those, and I’ll deal with them if (when) they show up.

This last week? Brutal. It wrecked my routines, my mental health, and any hope I had of self-care. But it also reminded me, I can do hard things. I said “No” a few times, and while I didn’t feel great about it, I wasn’t swallowed by guilt either. Just… mildly nibbled. smirk

And when I spiraled a little? I didn’t add shame on top of it. I let myself feel what I needed to feel and got through it without making it ten times worse. That counts for something.

So today, I decided I was taking the day off. Which, for me, meant running around like a headless chicken trying to catch up on my own stuff. The plan was to check in with GOM around 5pm, have a beer, walk his dog, make a plan for tomorrow.

Spoiler alert: That didn’t happen.

Instead, things went sideways again. His car’s knackered. He’s frustrated and clearly struggling with the limits of what he can do. And I do have empathy. I really do. But there’s nothing left I can offer.

I know I need to stop putting off my own care. And I know that continuing to do so is me leaning into a victim mindset I don’t want to live in. It’s okay to be frustrated, even flattened by how hard adapting is, especially when I don’t have much support.

But something’s got to shift.

Right now, I’m staring down some old coping mechanisms I usually avoid like the plague. Not the healthiest options, but when you’re already dangling off the cliff edge, maybe letting go and hitting the bottom gives you something solid to push off from?

I’m not saying it’s smart. I’m saying it’s where I’m at.

I haven’t had a drink in a long time. But after writing this? I’m pouring a vodka. Not to numb it all out. Just… to acknowledge it.

Am I convincing you? Or myself?

…Fuck it.

Still Not There Yet

Technically, the GOM’s supposed to leave tomorrow… but honestly? I think it’s going to be a few more days. We’re still not there yet.

The good news? We’ve both gotten better at catching our frustration before it boils over. No yelling, no tears. Just quiet sighs and a lot of patience.

I’m trying really hard not to take over. I want to respect his autonomy, but part of me just wants to send him off to the pool, grab the reins, and blitz through the rest. I could knock this out in a couple of days if I had full control.

This shouldn’t be a 10-day job. And honestly? I need to figure out where my boundaries are and how to express them kindly before next season. Because this? This isn’t sustainable.

I get that I’m playing a part in this. I need to be firmer with myself.

But… if I didn’t help him, who would? I know what it’s like to struggle, and it really matters to me to be someone who shows up when I can.

“Be the change you want to see in the world,”

…and all that. It’s something I believe in deeply. I just don’t know how to say, “This is too much,” when I know that saying it could hurt someone else.

I don’t have the answers yet. But I DO need to start figuring them out.

It’s hard to know when to call it quits when the goalposts keep shifting—not out of malice, just life happening—and you’re still trying to be supportive through it all.

On that note, I’ve been using ChatGPT to help me collate my thoughts, cut through the noise, and get to the core issues. It’s not a perfect tool (but then again, neither is therapy), but when it comes to organizing my language… it works.

I added a page about my “Use of AI” in my content. I didn’t use AI to write that—which probably says enough on its own. Cheeky grin.

Also, I changed my tagline to “logical crazy person”—a nod to knowing exactly what’s going on in my brain, but still learning how to manage and deal with it.

And hey, another small win: I ate something! Just some string cheese and a Klondike bar. Yep, trash food. But it still counts.

The Mental Load No One Sees

Rough night. No real sleep.

My AC’s not working properly. Pretty sure it just needs a clean and the usual maintenance. You know, one of those tasks “on the list” that I keep pushing off until I have a window of time and energy. I’m hoping I can get to it before it completely gives up on me.

But honestly, what’s hitting harder than the broken AC is the mental load I’m carrying. Right now, I’m struggling to control where my thoughts go. When I don’t get time to decompress or take proper care of myself, my inner defenses just collapse. I lose the ability to challenge the negative thoughts before they spiral. And they are spiraling.

My brain is desperate for a hit of happy chemicals, and it keeps offering me really bad ideas on how to get them. And then I have to sit with each of those thoughts and play detective. Is this real? Is this self-sabotage? Is this just old wiring firing up again? It’s exhausting.

Imagine second-guessing every thought you have. Not because you’re indecisive, but because you know your brain can’t be trusted right now.
And that awareness? That vigilance? It’s a whole other layer of burnout no one really talks about.

Also, tiny sidenote, but kind of important, I haven’t eaten anything since the pizza I had on Tuesday. I’m running on beer and orange juice calories. Not great.
I’ll try to find time (and motivation) to grab some actual food tomorrow.

Right now, I’m doing what I can. Bare minimum. But it counts.

The Cost of Functioning

Monday kinda broke me.

When you’re deep in burnout, it’s like your brain loses its filter. Every negative thought just slips in and sticks. Stuff that wouldn’t even blip on your radar on a good day suddenly feels massive, personal, and never-ending.

And when there’s no finish line in sight, your nervous system doesn’t reset, it just stays locked in survival mode. No hope, no space to reframe, just enough energy to crawl through the next task.

This isn’t about mindset. It’s biology. Your body isn’t failing, it’s waving the white flag. Saying: we’re full, we can’t carry any more.

What’s really breaking me right now isn’t the exhaustion itself, it’s the way people respond to it.

I can’t talk about this with anyone, including my therapist, without getting a platitude. And platitudes feel like a polite way of saying, “Shut up.” Like telling a starving person, “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll find food tomorrow.” It’s not helpful. It’s dismissive.

I tried talking to my therapist. The moment I felt dismissed, I shut down. And then they kept emailing me… not to check in, but to tell me their needs. Four emails. In the end, I just said: I don’t have the capacity to help you right now. Just tell me what you decide. I wasn’t mad. I get that people have needs. But I’m finally learning how to say, “Not mine to carry.”

I even tried taking a day off yesterday, but it didn’t really start till 5 p.m.

And I think that’s the root of all this:
I know how to name what I need.
I can ask for support.
I am self-aware.
I’m even working on forgiving myself when I fall short.

But I have zero control over how people respond to that.

My ex used to complain that I never told him how I felt. But when I did, he said I was nagging or dumping expectations on him. So which is it? Was I silent, or was I too much?

He never understood that sometimes I didn’t ask for help because rejection feels worse than struggling alone. I wasn’t trying to make him responsible for fixing anything, I just didn’t want to feel even more like a burden.

I know now: that was his shame.
His fear of failing.
His inability to meet his own promises.
His guilt, projected onto me.

And the only reason those memories are even this loud again is because I’m burnt out. I don’t have the mental energy to block the echoes of the shit he used to say, lazy, useless, gold digger, whatever. I know none of it was true. He just wanted me to hurt because he was hurting.

And yeah, I let it go on too long. But I was in survival mode. I didn’t have the capacity to pause and ask:
Is this my feeling, or a reaction to his behavior?
Is this even mine to hold?

Given the chaos, I think I did pretty fucking amazing. I stayed grounded enough not to escalate. I prioritized peace over winning. I tried. Hard.

Could I have done better? Sure.
But creating stability for him was never my job. It was a burden he handed me, and back then, I didn’t know how to say no.
I’m still not sure I could say no in the moment today… But I am learning how to go back afterward and say,
“Hey—that thing I tolerated? That wasn’t okay, and here’s what I’m doing about it now.”

So what now?

Well—I did finally take that partial day off. And I’ve drawn a line: my last day helping is Friday, whether the job’s done or not. Today was supposed to be my last, with Thursday and Friday as “clean-up” days. So really, it’s just a minor extension.

(Post-edit: lol, she did not hold that boundary.)

And then I’m done. Two full days off. No people. No plans. Just space.

Because I said three therapy sessions ago that I desperately needed a two day break… and I still haven’t had it, 3 weeks later.

And this isn’t something a 20-minute self-care routine can fix. This needs a system reboot. A full shutdown and reset.

There’ll be a cost. There always is.
But the cost of not doing it?
That’s my ability to function at all.

A Twisted Kind of Self-Care

I definitely sleep better when I’m looking after someone else. It’s weird, but true. Caring for others calms my nervous system in a way that self-care just… doesn’t.

Right now, I’m helping out my friend, affectionately known as GOM (Grumpy Old Man). He’s 82, sharp as ever, funny, independent, and still totally capable. But like all of us, he moves slower than he used to. It’s a big job getting ready for his trip back home and it just goes faster and smoother with two people.

Yesterday got rained off, so I popped over to grab his laundry and check a chore off the list. His car’s almost packed, camper almost sorted. We had a plan: I’d help him prep so he could head north for his appointments. I cleared my schedule. Postponed therapy. Ignored my land. Put my own life on pause for a couple weeks.

Because that’s what I do.

And then… the trip got delayed.

Just like that, the reward I was promising myself, a couple of days to rest, my time to refocus on me … it just vanished.

Now, to be clear: it’s not his fault. GOM is doing what’s best for him, and I support that.

But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t upset. I was counting down the days until I could come back to myself. I made sacrifices, big ones, because I thought there was a finish line.

Instead, I’m left emotionally wrung out, without the relief I was working toward. And that’s the thing no one talks about when you’re the “helpful” one. You give and give, but you don’t always get to choose when it’s over. Especially when your giving becomes someone else’s comfort.

This week reminded me that relying on caregiving to meet my emotional needs is a slippery slope. Yes, it gives me dopamine. Yes, it makes me feel useful and loved. But when it replaces my own care, my therapy, my healing? It’s not selfless. It’s self-sabotage dressed up as service.

I’m trying to let go of the shame around that. I needed what I could get, connection, meaning, structure. Helping him gives me that.

But here’s the truth: I know it’s okay to put myself first. That’s not the struggle. The struggle is the heaviness that comes with knowing what I need for myself will come at the cost of someone else.

I can’t relax or recharge when I know someone I care about is out there needing help I could give. And that weight, that conflict, isn’t about guilt. It’s about love. And the price love sometimes quietly demands.

Survival Mode, Chaos Birds & Facebook Trolls

Let’s just say, today was a lot.

I’m in survival mode right now. My mental health? Kinda circling the drain. I know exactly why, and no, I don’t have time to deal with it. When you’re the only one picking up the slack, self-care becomes optional … this blog included.

And yeah, I know it’s not healthy to just push through. But sometimes all you can do is put your head down, keep moving, and pay the price later. Self-forgiveness is on hold. Again.

There was a moment that made me laugh, even though it was laced with frustration. I pulled over to let a FedEx truck pass because I couldn’t handle the pressure of being in their way. They were “working.” I was just existing. And I know this is the trauma response talking …putting someone else’s needs and comfort above my own to get a tiny hit of dopamine.
It’s ridiculous. I know why I do it. But today, it felt like a small kindness to myself. And honestly? I’m tired of fighting with my brain over being “too nice” at the moment.

Despite the mess in my head, I actually got a lot done. I tackled the car, emptied it out, sorted what stays in Florida vs. what’s going back North, and managed to beat a torrential rainstorm to stash everything safely.

Back at base, I fed the dogs, cats, horses, and an aggressive cockatiel who says “I love you” and “F**k you” depending on his mood. He dances with me. He also bites. It’s a vibe.

The house cat, usually a little jerk, turned into a clingy lovebug, maybe he’s lonely now that he’s housebound. We cuddled. It was weirdly healing.

Dinner was sad ramen, chili oil and powdered cheese. I’ve eaten worse, but not often.

Then Facebook decided to test me. Some dude, mad that I challenged another man’s misogyny, spammed my photos with vomit emojis and called me fat and disgusting. First off—I’m not. But more importantly? I see right through it. This is what insecure men do when a woman holds up a mirror.

Thankfully, I’ve got PeeWee (their dog) cuddled up behind me tonight. He doesn’t care about trolls or chaos. He’s just here, warm and loyal. And right now, that’s everything.