20 to life

The walls of my house feel like a prison. As long as I am within its walls I feel obligated to be scrubbing, changing, mopping, folding, dusting, wiping, washing, organizing or feeding something. And it’s worse than a treadmill. Because no matter home often I scrub, change, mop, fold, dust, wipe, wash, organize or feed I turn around only to find it’s worse than when I began. There’s no safe haven I can retreat to because everywhere I go within these walls there is something demanding my attention. And I wish I could just shut it out. I wish I could ignore it. But I think I have some sort of genetic abnormality that causes me to HAVE to clean. And I can’t shut it off. And I want to. So badly I want to. Because I don’t want to be held hostage to my house anymore! I want my prison sentence to be over. But every time I ask I’m reminded that I’m serving a life sentence with no possibility of parole.

But sometimes I dream of escape. I lie in bed at night and think of all the things I rather be doing. And so sometimes I attempt a breakout. Before the house knows my plans I gather up the kids and we get in the car and we just go somewhere. And for a minute or two I actually think I’ve gotten away with it, too. But then disaster always ensues. Always. Because no matter how far I run I can never run away from the pooping, peeing, puking, fighting, biting, crying, running, pushing, throwing, breaking hysteria that are my kids. Do you have any idea what it’s like to go out in public with 3 small kids? And I realize that this is the house’s punishment for trying to leave. It lets me leave, knowing that I’ll always be back. And then it can torment me again.

And that’s how it goes. Day after day after day. Inside my house feels like prison. Outside my house feels like cruel and unusual punishment. I’m trapped in an unending cycle.