I know this for sure

I have sketched out a lot of potential versions of myself in my head. Like life-sized cardboard cutouts, I’ve lined them up on a shelf in my mind – there’s “Fit Emily,” “Sleeps-like-a-baby Emily,” and, perhaps the most sparkly and elusive – “Organized Emily.”

This is the Emily I most deeply covet embodying. This Emily cleans out her closets easily, efficiently, and on a regular schedule so it never gets out of control. She does not swear or throw things or let loose a waterfall of self-effacement and confusion.

Why do you have all this stuff, anyway? Why haven’t you gotten rid of that yet? I need to remember I have three staplers and shouldn’t acquire any more. How sad that we never even opened that Lego set… I miss having a kid who would play Legos with me. Is it worth the effort to reunite these three rubber bands with the critical mass, or should I save myself the trouble and just throw them away? Can batteries go in the trash? I always forget. I have no idea what this cord is for… I’d better keep it just in case. Is this old, ratty sweater even worth donating, or would its dreadful condition offend even the most needy? We shouldn’t donate used underwear, right?

It's not just the attack on my self-esteem, my efficacy, and very worth as a human that gets me. It’s all the tiny decisions inflicting little smarting paper cuts all over my skin – all the second-guessing, which is its own brand of self-flagellation.