Saturday, Sept. 1 was the first night since the August '07 flooding that my husband and I slept in our house like we really lived there. I suppose it should have been a moment of celebration.
My only thought: "Do we really have to live here?"
Maybe I had just gotten spoiled living at a hotel where some angel cleaned my room and where I bathed and swam for hours just to scrub off the muck and relax. (That's respectively, mind you. I was not cleaning off basement river mud in the pool.)
No, that wasn't it. It was that even though we had made tons of progress, there was still so much to do, and I didn't even know where to start.
Non-flood-related problems started cropping up too. Our toilet began to make this weird hissing, and repairing it turned into a back-breaking nightmare for my husband. (Dude, my job is to hold the flashlight. And go buy a new toilet.)
When I made the decision to turn the guest bedroom into a storage room (like I'm ever going to put things in the basement again), I rationalized: "No sense putting up shelves in here until I tear down the wallpaper like I've been meaning to do for the past three years."
Ted could not even speak when he saw me stripping wallpaper instead of repacking salvaged items.
I admit it: I kind of lost my cookies Saturday.
I do mean cookies. The Red Cross packs some in every blessed meal they have provided at our home (no gas=no stove=no cooking). I started scarfing them down, a sure signal of my depressive swings.
I just couldn't believe this was our home. "It has failed us," my brain kept whispering. "You're better off than your neighbors and you're complaining?" my guilt whispered back. "Go #*$^ yourself," I told myself.
Instead of listening to myself, I've been trying to listen to what others are telling me. "You are safe and the home is functioning. You'll get there." "I understand. Let me help you." "C'mere and get a hug." "This too shall pass."
I need to let these feelings slip away like the river current itself. If I hang on to them, trying to catch each drip in an emotional bucket, I go crazy in analyzing them. If I try to stop them, sandbagging against the emotional tide, I go crazy in a sudden break.
Just let it wash over, and resurface when the time is right.