I use to be super organized, like bordering on anal retentive, OCD organized. And then the order that I had carefully crafted fell apart. It got loose when I moved to NJ to be with my bf after I discovered that I was pregnant. He wanted his family to be with him and so I picked my newly unemployed ass up and moved, even though I could feel my family's disapproval. With him I was going to have what I always wanted - that nuclear family, maybe even the picket fence and a dog. He seemed to welcome, even need, my order. But I soon realized that my need to keep things organized gave him permission to relax (read: be a slob). It was like oil and water. I became the ever busy house wife, trying to see how many plates I could juggle. I was the chef, the maid, his secretary (like really, I kept his calendar in order as he tried to start a business in between his 9 to 5 and video game marathons). I assumed all of the "duties" of a wife without any of the benefits. We weren't married and he didn't seem to be pressed. His mother didn't respect me. I mean, her passive aggressiveness was the stuff of sitcom legend...without the laughtrack. Because that shit was not funny. At all. I had tried to find a job and managed to do some temp work but who was going to hire me pregnant? Not working was foreign to me. I had starting officially working when I turned 14 but I was always hustling, being industrious. That went hand in hand with my compulsive need to put and keep things in order. Not working while going through my first pregnancy away from my family and dealing with him and his mama did something to me. I started feeling broken. I had always worked hard not to feel broken. The good grades, accolades at church, scholarships to college and degrees had helped me feel less broken. But when my baby was delivered prematurely and had to stay in the NICU for 2 months,

the edges got frayed when my plan to leave him got sabotaged and I found myself making the rash decision to jump out of the frying pan into the fire. But things really fell apart when my grandmother passed away. I became a certifiable mess. Oh, on the surface, it looked like I still had my shit together. I still managed to multitask with my Superwoman cape fluttering in the breeze.