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The faucet pours as I stare at my irresponsibility. The sound of water greeting the stainless steel sink for the first time in God-only-knows-how-long brings some much-avoided embarrassment. My kitchen hosts a mountain of dirty dishes so high and wide, not even the bravest of mountaineers dare climb the thing. I couldn’t possibly tell you how or why it got this bad, but now I can’t tell if the water gives off a hearty steam because of mere heat or because of its disappointment in me.
My eyes are heavy, filled with impending sleep. The individual days grow longer with each moment it seems, but I look back on the month and can’t comprehend how it went by with such candid briskness. I know one thing for certain – time asks no permission. By now, the suds have collected and are holding court, gossiping of their delayed visit. No matter how much I’d like to put this off another night, I begin.
I pick up the first plate, crusted and crestfallen. The submerged, soapy sponge scrubs and loves this long-neglected acquaintance. Watching the build-up wash off is cathartic, in a way; my own guilt and shame fall away with the debris. Looking down at this now sparkling plate, you’d never know it had been through something so rough. My livelihood returns as I return the plate to its right place; the cabinet, warm and hospitable. I grab the next dish – a bowl who never saw it coming. I take my sponge and continue to (pun intended) rinse and repeat. A while later, I’m closing up shop and promising myself I’ll be attentive and responsible from here on out.
Too often, I care for my soul as if it were a dish; piled high, crusted and old, forgotten. I do my best to keep it maintained, but I throw it to the side when the days get long and my eyes get heavy. Without my realizing, my self-dialogue turns toxic and I’m exhausted from the inside out. What was once simple and beautiful decays and depresses into the guilt and shame I carry on my shoulders. When I come back to my senses and see the extent of the damages, I have to put my hubris aside and face the music. I take everything out of the sink, turn on the hot water, add soap, and scrub until I recognize myself again.
I swear I’m working on breaking this habit, but it’s much easier said than done. The process is uncomfortable and embarrassing, but inevitable and so distinctly human. I’ve found that the first step toward progress is awareness. If you’re like me and let self-care fall to the wayside when life gets busy/tough, make yourself a promise to improve little by little and share your struggle with a trusted loved one. Be gentle with yourself, my friend. If you find yourself tired and disconnected, remember the mountain of dishes in the sink; piled high, crusted and old, forgotten – impatient for soap.
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Photo credit: Getty Images