Today was the first real day back at work. Though I've been in and out, and working hard, hives derailed me...actual hives. Again with the Judy Blume reference (remember Otherwise Known As Sheila The Great?), but I have never seen hives, and obviously never experienced them first-hand. A bumpy rash broke out on my upper chest and on both arms; red welts (which I always spelled "weals" until I did my extensive internet research, which turned up the actual spelling "wheals") covered every available inch of my skin thereabouts and itched. Oh, did they itch. Plenty of friends' diagnoses referred to hives--"stress hives"--but I became convinced it was chicken pox or perhaps shingles, as I did have chicken pox as a child. A visit to the doctor--it's hives all righty, hives with no real cause. Doubtless it's stress. I didn't eat anything odd, and nothing's touched my skin that hasn't in the years my skin and I have coexisted. The wheals made it easy to shave off the mandatory back-to-school meeting, as did my boss's directive to work in my classroom instead. But today we had our first all-school meeting, and I wondered at myself, and my own attitude, and my sophomore slump.
Professionally, I think I'm energized and ready to tackle this year. I have so many goals, and actual strategies to work to put those goals into place. To achieve them, this year, or at least make measurable success toward planning, grading, assessing, tweaking. My classroom looks fantastic. A couple of parent volunteers sweetly cleaned all of my tables and even rearranged the books on the shelves so that they look inviting, exciting, non-traumatizing.
I was just so damn negative in the meeting. I didn't say anything, which is new and exciting for me; I just kept my trap shut and thought mean and nasty thoughts about the several people on staff that I despise. Then for a bit I'd feel guilty for despising them--how twelve-steppy is that, ripping them to shreds in my head?--but it was just so satisfying I'd go back to it almost immediately. It wasn't as if it was a BAD meeting--I've sat through enough of those at work to definitely know the difference--but it was long, and tedious, and the people I don't much like did a lot of talking, which started the whole cycle over again. I started thinking of the folks I dislike as characters from "Sex and the City": there was Charlotte, making precious moues with her mouth, and there was Miranda, who squares her shoulders and juts out her chin whenever she speaks (and, to be fair, if I had any respect for her I would prize those pugnacious qualities). There was Carrie, who moves gracefully but works against me, every time, whether consciously or not. Samantha was cut from the building last year, and I never had anything against Samantha, after all; she was an elementary teacher, and it's the middle school teachers I don't like. Naturally there are more coworkers than there are names in "Sex and the City," but I did nickname one Stanford, though our Stanford is straight as an arrow, he's also malleable and easily dismissed.
My boss-secret-friend did say, while we were throwing back secret beers at the Flying Squirrel that night, that several people on staff had directed their boundless alternative-school-directed rage at me, the new teacher, last year; and that, I clung to. Secret Friend has said a few things that I've treasured, over the past year and a half. One was in reference to the wonderful teacher I displaced, last year. "They [the students] liked Lance," she said. Lance is a tall and gorgeous half-Chinese teacher who taught my students the year before, and was, naturally, the one teacher I probably would have bonded with immediately. "They adore you." This meant so much, because I loved my students wholeheartedly and helplessly; even though they knew how much I loved them, they never took advantage of me, or at least still worked with me as much as teenagers can. To hear her admit that perhaps I was a target for the fury against the two-schools-in-one made me feel a bit better; it's too easy for me to believe that I have it coming, that I did something or many things to create the dissonance.
More, as my shrink says, will be revealed. Now, for the Labor Day holiday, I will attack my to-do list, and try my best not to smoke.
Monday, September 3, 2012
Monday, August 27, 2012
Castles in the fog
I was driving him to Newport on Thursday. It was comfortable--there was a little zing because I'm still attracted to him, and the Like Liking got worse because he didn't care about my disfigured mouth--and we chatted, here and there, about any number of things. He said: "You don't talk about your mom that much. You talk about your dad a lot, but not your mom."
I tried to explain my mom thing, and did it badly; Sherman, during my visit to Portland last week, actually did more than any close friend has ever done to cut through the fog and bullshit to reveal more (or fewer) feelings than there were. But I started thinking, then and now, about my dad, and about my stepmother, and about the relationships therein.
My dad was never single. A serial monogamist, if you will. I wonder at that: he was hard to live with, imperturbably difficult, unapologetic, moody and often cruel. Yet he had met and married my mother--who was obviously dealing with her own psychological issues, but who was as bright as he, and absolutely beautiful. I have pictures of my mother, at my uncle's wedding, drinking a cocktail with my father, and the two of them are so glowing and modern and fresh, they look as if they are in an advertisement for the late sixties-early seventies, the clothes are fantastic and my mother--my mother is beautiful. Her hair is glossy and arranged just-so, in a sweep of over the eye perfectly flatironed (did they have flatirons then?) STYLE; her dress is geometric black-and-white print, sleeveless, short, and it hugs her slender body like a lover. My stepmother was no slouch in the looks department, either, and she is so well-traveled and well-read. Dad had excellent taste in women, after all. But I wonder how they could deal with him. And then I wonder if that's something that affects how they dealt with me--if my resolute singletonhood is threatening to them--was threatening, in my dad's case, because he echoed or underscored my stepmother's occasional cawing about my marital status.
Nowadays, it's not as big of a deal, but it's also still there. My stepmother let it be known (with help from Daisy, who probably, if pressed, would admit that she doesn't care much one way or another, but does not pass up an opportunity to nag me about pretty much anything; quid pro quo and all that) that she thinks I should partner up. "Why?" I asked. "I'm perfectly happy."
"You're alone, you need someone."
"I have lots of friends," I replied.
"You need someone there for you," she said. "You need a partner for financial reasons as well as emotional reasons."
"I can take care of myself," I said, but I was already losing ground. CAN I take care of myself? I'm so in debt and I don't own a house. If I had zero credit card debt and was paying a mortgage, I could have shut her up with that ninja move; but she could sense doubt and zoomed in.
"You need someone! Daisy's going off to college in four years, and you'll be alone. What are you going to do, get more cats?"
I giggled. NO MORE CATS. Then I thought: why was Dad partnered all his life, and I'm alone?
Then I thought: he wasn't partnered all his life. He was separated from my stepmom, because he was so fucking hard to live with (Elaine was annoying at times, but she works really hard to make things smooth and I know it wasn't her fault they split up), for years. They almost filed divorce papers, but I think my father snapped back into reality when he contemplated the thought of Divorce Number Two. After his stroke, he wasn't as strong as he had been, and he turned to her, which helped their relationship (although they might argue that, the truth is that he needed her openly, and even if that bothered her sometimes, it probably relaxed her).
I remembered my Irvington fantasy. I had told it to Olivia, then Jesse, but I'd thought it up, dreamed it up, years ago, while visiting Rachael in her beautiful Irvington house in Portland. I thought: this would have been my life, had I made different choices. I gave myself free rein. I would have gone to Reed, all four years; I would have probably seen a counselor and gotten a jump on mental health and clarity. After school I would've moved to some humid Midwestern city, for my job: I might have been an editor, a journalist, a producer. I'd always have known I'd head back to the West Coast, but I'd happily serve my time gaining work experience so that I could afford to live in the style I wanted to, back in Portland. I'd meet and marry my husband--who resembles my dad, in some ways, my dad crossed with a Judy Blume hero, Jewish, short, hilarious, brilliant. We'd have a couple kids right away, then a third--a girl, finally--after a few years for my poor uterus to recover. Three kids, a station wagon, and he'd climb the ladder to corporate success. We'd move back to Portland before the kids started school, and buy a house--a huge fixer-upper--in Irvington. I'd go back to work part-time. I'd worry about my weight--I would look like a slightly harried and sloppy version of my mother, at my uncle's wedding. My oldest son would be a football player, my second son withdrawn. The girl would be spoiled (I still put Daisy's face on her, even though she doesn't appear in this fantasy--even in my air castles, Daisy still owns most of the real estate). My husband would have an affair with a co-worker, and we'd work through that, but the pain would stay, even though I'd avoid talking about it with everyone.
I thought of this, and the world seemed so real to me. But I wouldn't have Kerry, or Daisy, or my independence, or my classroom, or my dog, or my autonomy...and my shadow husband's betrayal hurt so badly just in the corners of my mind, it almost made up for the lack of the Reed degree, the two kids I didn't have, the three-story full-basement gorgeous-neighborhood equity.
Can any man live up to my Jewish phantom husband (that cheating bastard) or my dad's memory? Am I too much like my dad to really cleave to anyone...because women will bend for that relationship, and we know my dad wouldn't. I am too much like him to bend, and perhaps that is what my stepmother is saying to me. You need to bend. You need to give.
I don't know if I can.
I tried to explain my mom thing, and did it badly; Sherman, during my visit to Portland last week, actually did more than any close friend has ever done to cut through the fog and bullshit to reveal more (or fewer) feelings than there were. But I started thinking, then and now, about my dad, and about my stepmother, and about the relationships therein.
My dad was never single. A serial monogamist, if you will. I wonder at that: he was hard to live with, imperturbably difficult, unapologetic, moody and often cruel. Yet he had met and married my mother--who was obviously dealing with her own psychological issues, but who was as bright as he, and absolutely beautiful. I have pictures of my mother, at my uncle's wedding, drinking a cocktail with my father, and the two of them are so glowing and modern and fresh, they look as if they are in an advertisement for the late sixties-early seventies, the clothes are fantastic and my mother--my mother is beautiful. Her hair is glossy and arranged just-so, in a sweep of over the eye perfectly flatironed (did they have flatirons then?) STYLE; her dress is geometric black-and-white print, sleeveless, short, and it hugs her slender body like a lover. My stepmother was no slouch in the looks department, either, and she is so well-traveled and well-read. Dad had excellent taste in women, after all. But I wonder how they could deal with him. And then I wonder if that's something that affects how they dealt with me--if my resolute singletonhood is threatening to them--was threatening, in my dad's case, because he echoed or underscored my stepmother's occasional cawing about my marital status.
Nowadays, it's not as big of a deal, but it's also still there. My stepmother let it be known (with help from Daisy, who probably, if pressed, would admit that she doesn't care much one way or another, but does not pass up an opportunity to nag me about pretty much anything; quid pro quo and all that) that she thinks I should partner up. "Why?" I asked. "I'm perfectly happy."
"You're alone, you need someone."
"I have lots of friends," I replied.
"You need someone there for you," she said. "You need a partner for financial reasons as well as emotional reasons."
"I can take care of myself," I said, but I was already losing ground. CAN I take care of myself? I'm so in debt and I don't own a house. If I had zero credit card debt and was paying a mortgage, I could have shut her up with that ninja move; but she could sense doubt and zoomed in.
"You need someone! Daisy's going off to college in four years, and you'll be alone. What are you going to do, get more cats?"
I giggled. NO MORE CATS. Then I thought: why was Dad partnered all his life, and I'm alone?
Then I thought: he wasn't partnered all his life. He was separated from my stepmom, because he was so fucking hard to live with (Elaine was annoying at times, but she works really hard to make things smooth and I know it wasn't her fault they split up), for years. They almost filed divorce papers, but I think my father snapped back into reality when he contemplated the thought of Divorce Number Two. After his stroke, he wasn't as strong as he had been, and he turned to her, which helped their relationship (although they might argue that, the truth is that he needed her openly, and even if that bothered her sometimes, it probably relaxed her).
I remembered my Irvington fantasy. I had told it to Olivia, then Jesse, but I'd thought it up, dreamed it up, years ago, while visiting Rachael in her beautiful Irvington house in Portland. I thought: this would have been my life, had I made different choices. I gave myself free rein. I would have gone to Reed, all four years; I would have probably seen a counselor and gotten a jump on mental health and clarity. After school I would've moved to some humid Midwestern city, for my job: I might have been an editor, a journalist, a producer. I'd always have known I'd head back to the West Coast, but I'd happily serve my time gaining work experience so that I could afford to live in the style I wanted to, back in Portland. I'd meet and marry my husband--who resembles my dad, in some ways, my dad crossed with a Judy Blume hero, Jewish, short, hilarious, brilliant. We'd have a couple kids right away, then a third--a girl, finally--after a few years for my poor uterus to recover. Three kids, a station wagon, and he'd climb the ladder to corporate success. We'd move back to Portland before the kids started school, and buy a house--a huge fixer-upper--in Irvington. I'd go back to work part-time. I'd worry about my weight--I would look like a slightly harried and sloppy version of my mother, at my uncle's wedding. My oldest son would be a football player, my second son withdrawn. The girl would be spoiled (I still put Daisy's face on her, even though she doesn't appear in this fantasy--even in my air castles, Daisy still owns most of the real estate). My husband would have an affair with a co-worker, and we'd work through that, but the pain would stay, even though I'd avoid talking about it with everyone.
I thought of this, and the world seemed so real to me. But I wouldn't have Kerry, or Daisy, or my independence, or my classroom, or my dog, or my autonomy...and my shadow husband's betrayal hurt so badly just in the corners of my mind, it almost made up for the lack of the Reed degree, the two kids I didn't have, the three-story full-basement gorgeous-neighborhood equity.
Can any man live up to my Jewish phantom husband (that cheating bastard) or my dad's memory? Am I too much like my dad to really cleave to anyone...because women will bend for that relationship, and we know my dad wouldn't. I am too much like him to bend, and perhaps that is what my stepmother is saying to me. You need to bend. You need to give.
I don't know if I can.
Friday, August 17, 2012
nonissue
At this point, I like him. LIKE like him. It's another one of those moo points, after all; he's moving away in less than two weeks, and not moving to Arizona or Wisconsin or any other state that terrifies me, he's moving overseas, he'll be there two years, there is no me for him, there is no he for me, he represents a nonissue in my mind, which is perhaps why I like like him. Why I hug the memories of him close, and refuse to say a fucking word to him about how I feel. There isn't any pressure for me. I don't yearn to open my heart to him, to urp out the Feelings (with the all-important capital F) onto his possibly-aghast ears. I just know I like him now. Maybe it's because I know there's no potential. Maybe because I feel so comfortable with him. I don't know him that well yet I know him so well. He does strange and wonderful things to me, and I like that too. I like the way he smells. Just the sound of his voice in my ear can make me curl up and hold out my hands.
Another nonissue, because my mouth exploded. Figuratively, of course. I've not had a cold sore for years, but after he left, after my stepmother appeared, so did a rash of fever blisters: my mouth is swollen and sore, and it's ridick. I take the drugs, I smear the ointment, I swallow Lysine. I don't think it's going to clear up for any last flings. Even that is okay with me. Maybe my mouth made it safe.
My stepmother bought me a Shark. This is endearing and also ridiculous. I live now in a tiny house with no carpet; the floors in every room but the kitchen are beautiful, glossy hardwood, and the kitchen is tile-inspired lino. I bought a Swiffer on impulse, and was oh so glad I did, as Daisy took to the Swiffer like pigs to mud, and has Swiffed and mopped more times here than she has in all my cheesey memory. Yesterday, when Elaine and I went to Costco (she paid for my food; wish I'd thrown a bag of catfood in there), she pointed out the Shark, a steam-powered Swiffer. I was more enamored of the Shark vacuum, but I don't need a vacuum here. I don't really need a Shark steam-powered mop, either, but it was pretty amazing of her to buy me an $80 cleaning tool. I was nonplussed but so touched, as well. She can buy me so little that I WANT; I like toys and colorful things and books and thrifted clothes, and my tastes have not yet coincided with any of my California adults. But still: it reminded me of when I visited, years ago, and she went into my suitcase, took out my blue down vest, and mended the pockets; then she replaced the vest and I found it, a week later, and was deeply moved. I think I might have shed a tear or two, which sounds tossaway, but isn't; I held the vest in my hands and I stared at it, and smiled, and my chest hitched, and I thought: She does love me. It does not look like my love, or love I imagine, but it is love, and here in my hands I hold proof. Because the vest was probably anathema to her. It is (1) ancient, (2) thrifted, (3) ugly, and (4) best suited to a 22-year-old ski bum. But I love it. She would have liked to throw it away. Instead she mended it because it is important to me.
Another nonissue, because my mouth exploded. Figuratively, of course. I've not had a cold sore for years, but after he left, after my stepmother appeared, so did a rash of fever blisters: my mouth is swollen and sore, and it's ridick. I take the drugs, I smear the ointment, I swallow Lysine. I don't think it's going to clear up for any last flings. Even that is okay with me. Maybe my mouth made it safe.
My stepmother bought me a Shark. This is endearing and also ridiculous. I live now in a tiny house with no carpet; the floors in every room but the kitchen are beautiful, glossy hardwood, and the kitchen is tile-inspired lino. I bought a Swiffer on impulse, and was oh so glad I did, as Daisy took to the Swiffer like pigs to mud, and has Swiffed and mopped more times here than she has in all my cheesey memory. Yesterday, when Elaine and I went to Costco (she paid for my food; wish I'd thrown a bag of catfood in there), she pointed out the Shark, a steam-powered Swiffer. I was more enamored of the Shark vacuum, but I don't need a vacuum here. I don't really need a Shark steam-powered mop, either, but it was pretty amazing of her to buy me an $80 cleaning tool. I was nonplussed but so touched, as well. She can buy me so little that I WANT; I like toys and colorful things and books and thrifted clothes, and my tastes have not yet coincided with any of my California adults. But still: it reminded me of when I visited, years ago, and she went into my suitcase, took out my blue down vest, and mended the pockets; then she replaced the vest and I found it, a week later, and was deeply moved. I think I might have shed a tear or two, which sounds tossaway, but isn't; I held the vest in my hands and I stared at it, and smiled, and my chest hitched, and I thought: She does love me. It does not look like my love, or love I imagine, but it is love, and here in my hands I hold proof. Because the vest was probably anathema to her. It is (1) ancient, (2) thrifted, (3) ugly, and (4) best suited to a 22-year-old ski bum. But I love it. She would have liked to throw it away. Instead she mended it because it is important to me.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
thwarted date, renewed commitment
I had a date scheduled for tonight, but it was an Adult Date. With all that that implies. Therefore, I had to schedule the thing around my offspring. Which didn't work out so well.
The logistics of the whole Adult Dating thing trump the minutiae going on inside my churny head. Though that's no small potatoes, believe you me. Hector pointed out that I was insane, that I was contradicting myself from sentence to sentence, and that I should, in his words, "just relax and be happy." The outlines were clear as day, after all--I was completely assured in my own wants & needs, and it shouldn't have been a dark and spongy mess in my brain. But it's almost impossible to quiet that thing. It has a mind of its own, my mind. Again: my body is pretty simple (and yet, so sweet and deep); my heart is the one true thing, yet still can be muffled or inhibited by my mind; and then the brain starts comparing, contrasting, creating Level III questions and keeping me up nights.
Stop thinking, Aimee.
I couldn't find anyone to take my child for the night, and there was no way I was going to let loose with her in the building. It's just a given. But she surprised me, today, asking if I was upset that my date had been cancelled. I goggled at her; she wouldn't meet my eyes, and her face looked tremulous and tired. She lay on the couch with a quilt over her, watching "LA Ink" on Netflix, and her spiderhands were twitching on the gorgeous hardwood. I lunged on her and clasped her to my heart--she's taller than I am, now, and cuddling her so is awkward and painful at times, but I wanted to crush her to me to underscore my words, which were coming from all three of me, my body, my heart, my mind.
"You are the best thing, the only thing, in my life," I said. "You mean more to me than anything. The date was nothing compared to you--the disappointment is NOTHING." She smiled a little. There were tears in her eyes, wobbling on her lower lashes; at this point I felt like the Worst Mother In The World, but it's not as if that feeling isn't familiar. "Honey, I would rather spend my time with you, and if a date doesn't work out, it's no big deal. Please don't even give it another thought."
"I want you to be happy," she said.
"I am happy," I told her. (And realized, as I said it, that it was true.) "It doesn't bother me that it didn't work out for tonight. It bothers me that you're upset."
"I just didn't want to be in the way," she said.
"You ARE the way," I said, and pinched her.
I hope, I hope, I hope I got this across to her. She trumps everyone in my book. Maybe if I'd had another child, she'd have a rival for my blighted love; maybe they'd pit me in a battle between the two siblings. Maybe. It's a moo point. Yes, I have a life of my own; yes, I have thoughts and emotions and needs, ew, gross, I said it, needs...but she's the first checkpoint in all of that. Weird.
Maybe I am not like my mother, after all. It's a good takeaway.
The logistics of the whole Adult Dating thing trump the minutiae going on inside my churny head. Though that's no small potatoes, believe you me. Hector pointed out that I was insane, that I was contradicting myself from sentence to sentence, and that I should, in his words, "just relax and be happy." The outlines were clear as day, after all--I was completely assured in my own wants & needs, and it shouldn't have been a dark and spongy mess in my brain. But it's almost impossible to quiet that thing. It has a mind of its own, my mind. Again: my body is pretty simple (and yet, so sweet and deep); my heart is the one true thing, yet still can be muffled or inhibited by my mind; and then the brain starts comparing, contrasting, creating Level III questions and keeping me up nights.
Stop thinking, Aimee.
I couldn't find anyone to take my child for the night, and there was no way I was going to let loose with her in the building. It's just a given. But she surprised me, today, asking if I was upset that my date had been cancelled. I goggled at her; she wouldn't meet my eyes, and her face looked tremulous and tired. She lay on the couch with a quilt over her, watching "LA Ink" on Netflix, and her spiderhands were twitching on the gorgeous hardwood. I lunged on her and clasped her to my heart--she's taller than I am, now, and cuddling her so is awkward and painful at times, but I wanted to crush her to me to underscore my words, which were coming from all three of me, my body, my heart, my mind.
"You are the best thing, the only thing, in my life," I said. "You mean more to me than anything. The date was nothing compared to you--the disappointment is NOTHING." She smiled a little. There were tears in her eyes, wobbling on her lower lashes; at this point I felt like the Worst Mother In The World, but it's not as if that feeling isn't familiar. "Honey, I would rather spend my time with you, and if a date doesn't work out, it's no big deal. Please don't even give it another thought."
"I want you to be happy," she said.
"I am happy," I told her. (And realized, as I said it, that it was true.) "It doesn't bother me that it didn't work out for tonight. It bothers me that you're upset."
"I just didn't want to be in the way," she said.
"You ARE the way," I said, and pinched her.
I hope, I hope, I hope I got this across to her. She trumps everyone in my book. Maybe if I'd had another child, she'd have a rival for my blighted love; maybe they'd pit me in a battle between the two siblings. Maybe. It's a moo point. Yes, I have a life of my own; yes, I have thoughts and emotions and needs, ew, gross, I said it, needs...but she's the first checkpoint in all of that. Weird.
Maybe I am not like my mother, after all. It's a good takeaway.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
tired
I washed Daisy's purple down comforter. There was a small pile of kitten poop on it, crusted on one corner, so I scraped the doody off and layered the comforter into the washing machine and hoped for the best. I'd gotten home 20 minutes before, and knew my aunt and uncle (actually second cousin once removed and her husband, called for simplicity's sake as well as pile of unforced love "aunt" and "uncle") would be at our new house by two. They're nothing if not punctual, and they're many many more things than merely punctual. Daisy was "stressed"; I'd denied her wish to take a bath, directing her instead to unload the car and unpack her suitcase, which, in spite of her "HIGH STRESS LEVEL, God, Mom!" she managed to do rapidly and competently. I swept and mopped the floor and fed the cats and threw my belongings on my bed. There was nothing to be done in my bedroom, but I did hide the condoms and I did shove the beer into the fridge.
I'm tired. Cripes and dear donkey, I'm tired, but I earned this tired: I'm not depressed-and-tired, nor am I tired from a day spent forlornly picking things up, putting them down, perusing my to-do list and staring off into space. I'm tired from sleeping poorly on two pushed-together couches, tired from a wonderful breakfast with my best friend; I'm tired from picking up my daughter from my mother's house, and tired from seeing my mother's house for the first time in seven years. I'm tired from the drive, I'm tired from the hasty lick-and-promise clean-up of my beloved house. I'm tired from feeding and conversing with my family, from the trip to Olive Garden. I'm tired from a full day, and it feels better than just being lazy tired, tired of worrying that I wasted a day.
I hung the comforter on the fence separating the neighbor's house from mine. I'm still angry at the apartment house on the other side, because they are the source of the weird grit-and-dirt crop circles on my painstakingly mowed back lawn. I haven't met any of my new neighbors except for the developmentally delayed daughter of one of my coworkers, who I bumped into when I was unloading yet another Forester-full of boxes and miscellanea, and who told me her kid lived next door then asked if I'd be willing to be a safe place for her. Well, of course I would. I haven't seen her kid yet, though, not since. I like the way the purple comforter looks, hanging on the fence; it won't be dry till tomorrow, if it doesn't rain.
Tomorrow I want to just not think of it. Funny when something happens, and it consumes my mind in ways even I can't really divide. I don't think there is anything to examine, but force of habit and my own personality spur me to pick, and pick, and pick at it: what happened? Why did it happen? Why do I want it to happen again? Too much in my mind. Too much in my head. I want to just not-feel again, for a while, which answers the last question. I want to act naturally, but acting naturally got me into this stasis, and I'm tired of the stasis. I'll think of the purple comforter, instead--the clean comforter. I'll remember how pretty I felt today, and yesterday, which was a gift and an unblemished one...I felt pretty for me, not pretty because I'd been told by him, but even I must admit I felt pretty because of him.
But now that I've spewed it out, it feels better.
I'm tired. Cripes and dear donkey, I'm tired, but I earned this tired: I'm not depressed-and-tired, nor am I tired from a day spent forlornly picking things up, putting them down, perusing my to-do list and staring off into space. I'm tired from sleeping poorly on two pushed-together couches, tired from a wonderful breakfast with my best friend; I'm tired from picking up my daughter from my mother's house, and tired from seeing my mother's house for the first time in seven years. I'm tired from the drive, I'm tired from the hasty lick-and-promise clean-up of my beloved house. I'm tired from feeding and conversing with my family, from the trip to Olive Garden. I'm tired from a full day, and it feels better than just being lazy tired, tired of worrying that I wasted a day.
I hung the comforter on the fence separating the neighbor's house from mine. I'm still angry at the apartment house on the other side, because they are the source of the weird grit-and-dirt crop circles on my painstakingly mowed back lawn. I haven't met any of my new neighbors except for the developmentally delayed daughter of one of my coworkers, who I bumped into when I was unloading yet another Forester-full of boxes and miscellanea, and who told me her kid lived next door then asked if I'd be willing to be a safe place for her. Well, of course I would. I haven't seen her kid yet, though, not since. I like the way the purple comforter looks, hanging on the fence; it won't be dry till tomorrow, if it doesn't rain.
Tomorrow I want to just not think of it. Funny when something happens, and it consumes my mind in ways even I can't really divide. I don't think there is anything to examine, but force of habit and my own personality spur me to pick, and pick, and pick at it: what happened? Why did it happen? Why do I want it to happen again? Too much in my mind. Too much in my head. I want to just not-feel again, for a while, which answers the last question. I want to act naturally, but acting naturally got me into this stasis, and I'm tired of the stasis. I'll think of the purple comforter, instead--the clean comforter. I'll remember how pretty I felt today, and yesterday, which was a gift and an unblemished one...I felt pretty for me, not pretty because I'd been told by him, but even I must admit I felt pretty because of him.
But now that I've spewed it out, it feels better.
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