Knots in my Mental Maytag

I know this girl who claims to have bankrupted her family, essentially, because she got a little behind one month on the bills, then more the next, then it just snowballed, and pretty soon she just "didn't think about it". Didn't pay the bills, didn't open the foreclosure notices, whatever. And I thought, "Yeah, right" How do you not think about something like that?

But I think I understand her, if just a little bit. I had some issues I couldn't think through this week, couldn't even think about–because I couldn't see any way out of the mess, so just hunker down, and keep breathing. I know it won't go away, but maybe . . . I will disappear? Who knows.

It's like that load of laundry–you know the one where you attempt to take it out, and there are six bras knotted around the center post and all the rest of the clothes so tight it would almost be easier to dismantle the washer than to untangle them?

That probably doesn't happen to you. You probably handwash your lingerie like it says right there on the tag. Everything I buy goes in the washing machine. If it doesn't make it out in one, recognizable piece, we weren't meant to be together.


Clearly I'm feeling better about the mess; the tangle of undergarments, pj's socks and blouse strings, as it were, or I wouldn't be sitting here.

My question is.

How much of this stuff do you write about in a public blog?

My cousin could admit to yelling at her daughter in her blog. My sister could admit to blowing up at her innocent inlaws. But how much do you bare your soul, really? And if you don't, if all the really dark, deep secrets stay in there, knotted tightly around the innermost workings of your mental Maytag, are you ever free? My husband commented the other day that he didn't feel like he really even knew me–and I'm thinking, are you kidding me? We work together, we sleep and shop and eat together, every last minute of our lives we spend right here in these rooms together, how do you not know me? 

But then I thought, you know–you don't. You don't know what I'm really thinking–its wound up so tight in here that I can't even make heads or tails of it. And why is that? Because I'm afraid of what people will think. I'm afraid of what you will think. I'm afraid of what I will think if I really dismantle the machinery, unwind the unmentionables and hang them out to dry, one by one for everyone to scrutinize.    


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