Stress

Last night my mother and I got up to go to the bathroom. She then sternly challenged me to account for the day's activities. I told her I had done sundry little things and I gave an example of the kind of minutiae I was talking about. She wanted more examples. Now, my memory isn't great as it is, and this was the middle of the night. I ended up waking all the way up just to answer her. I told my father today that I couldn't take it anymore. Each day I don't know exactly what is on my list -- only that it probably isn't a finite list. Each day I know I will have to keep busy just to stay out of trouble. But I also know that just staying busy and getting things done is no guarantee that I will stay out of trouble. The stress from the uncertainty and the relentless worry is worse than the actual work. I said I couldn't take it anymore and he said that my mother was [mentally] ill and she needed me to hang in there.

Now, lest you think that my productivity stopped with the list I published yesterday, it didn't. I kept going. (When Mom watches TV is a great time to catch up.) I even remembered at one point that the list I published wasn't complete. Having to do the stuff is bad enough. Having to catalog the memories of every little pencil scratch I've done is a hoop too high. Why scar myself with memories of drudgery? Why waste space in my head with checklists that belong on paper? The vaguest generalities will have to do. That's where I'm drawing the line.