I'm pretty sure I planted a bunch of The Pot

Let me tell you a story.

About three-ish weeks ago my friend PW sent a text saying he might stop by.  Yay!  Company!

But I was having a pretty bad day and about 30 minutes after he sent his text saying he might stop by, I decided I should at least warn him what he was in for and so I sent a warning text along the lines of, "I'm wearing my crabbiest of pants today."

Dude's a sucker for punishment because he still showed up.  So he sat on the couch playing with his phone and I was doing dishes and tending to children and then all of a sudden I decided to tell him about my bad day.

You see, I had decided it was time to build a garden.  It was April after all.  It was time.  So I went outside with my hoe and my (very little) determination and I starting hoeing.  I got like three rows hoed when I realized there was absolutely no way me and my OCDness were going to be able to continue.  I wanted to light that dirt on fire so bad because I was so mad at it.  And setting things on fire is how I make sure no one knows I even tried a project if it winds up a failure. (And they all wind up to be failures) See?

Instead of trying to light my dirt on fire I threw the hoe as far as I could (because I'm super mature like that) and then I cried.  Woe is me.

So I'm lamenting to PW about how I can do nothing right.  I'm terrible at everything.  I can't even make rows of dirt look good.  May as well go eat worms.  And bless his heart, he went out to that dirt spot, picked up the hoe, and he built me a garden.

My day was instantly all better and instead of crying over my stupid dirt, I wanted to cry because I was so happy and thankful for this friend who understands when I am crabby.

A few days later the girls and I are at the library for school and Thomas the Librarian (who really doubles as my therapist) and I are talking gardens and I show him a picture of my pretty dirt and he asks what I'm going to plant.

Right.

I'm supposed to plant something in that pretty dirt.

And he can tell that I haven't the slightest clue how to plant or what to plant and he says he has a bunch of starts that he will give me when I come back to the library the next day.

True to his word, Thomas the Librarian/Therapist had a bunch of plants for me.  He tells me what they are, what to do with them, what not to do with them, and sends me on my way.

Um.  Fast forward three weeks and my pretty dirt is a little less pretty and a lot weedy and the plants Thomas has given me are amazingly still alive but I forget what they are.

Tonight Josh took our girls to the drag races because that is what dads and daughters like to do, don't you know?  Little girls like loud, fast cars and getting dirty.  

So while they were gone I very nearly sent a text to my friend Betty inviting myself to be her fourth child for the night, but she had already spent three hours with me today and I decided that was probably enough for her for one day.  

I was sitting outside, enjoying a book, and my pretty yard and the brilliant silence when I looked over and saw the box full of plants that needed planting.

Heck. Why. Not.

I grabbed that box full of unidentified plants and I shoveled away some dirt and put in some plants and seeds and watered and weeded and then I called it a day.

Since most of those plants aren't labeled and I'm completely unaware as to what they are, it's very likely Thomas the Librarian gave me a bunch of the mari-ji-wana.  

Which I will in turn sell to pay my library fines.

words and worry. worry and words.

I love words. To say the words, because, hi, I'm Sarah and I really like to talk, but mostly to write the words.

I really like to write them. 

Words are often a lifeline of sorts. I can feel like I'm drowning. Flailing my arms at life and I will be so angry (always with this inner turmoil) that I can't say a word, the hot, angry, frustrated tears will come - but oh if I can write it out, just maybe that's the life preserver I need.

Some people can say the words they need to say aloud. They have an out loud voice and this is good for them, it works for them.  I find it safer to write my words. I can turn my pencil over and erase them, or I can pound the backspace bar.  But even in the safety net of writing them, I'm often scared outta my mind to publish them.

Or after publishing a FB or blog post, I panic.

I woke this morning at 3:15.  Couldn't sleep.  Could only think about how afraid I am of words I've already said and do people get tired, oh so tired, of hearing my voice?  

On Saturday I had a morning coffee date with my friend Betty.  Nearly five amazing hours later we parted ways and immediately I panicked that I said too many of the words in our time together. I'm scared of my out loud words.

While I love to write and love to talk, I want to be the listening friend as well.  I know. It goes both ways. Some days you listen, some days you talk.  I'm just always afraid I do too much of the talking.  Too much out loud.

I worry. Oh my goodness, always with the worry.  Did my FB offend? Did my Instagram picture description make someone roll their eyes? Do my blog posts always ramble? Am I as obnoxious in person as that one family member told me I was?

I've always been afraid of that.  And then someone voiced my fear and now it's there. Always there.  This constant doubt about myself and who I am and what I say.

And even about how hard I laugh.

I just want to be confident to say words without fear that they are always the wrong words, the obnoxious words. I want to feel that it's okay to just be me.  

{it's now midnight, I started the post at 2 pm}

I woke up after nearly 90 minutes of sleep.  Woke with the panicky feeling.  Earlier today (or I suppose, yesterday) I had Checked-In on FB that I was at the tattoo shop.  I have been so excited about this gypsy tattoo of mine.  But what if others don't like it?  What if they think me foolish?  Delete the post? It's midnight.  It's already been seen.  It's too late.

So I lay here.

With more worry.  It's this ugly thing. This constant thing.  It makes me tired.

And before I talk myself out of posting this, I'm just going to.  And in a few more hours I'm sure to wake again wondering about all of these wrong words as well.