He was such a jerk. Around every corner he was there. Always in the palm of my hands. Demanding of my time; snarling between hefty bites of its flesh.
An infestation of inner turmoil, do I check? Do I look? Which friend is going through a thing?
Don’t get me wrong, I care about their things, but I have my own things. Oftentimes, their things make me feel like my things are measuring both up and down at the same time; in that way, a perfectly orchestrated billboard of cardiac arrest with an aftershock of flatlining. It leaves me feeling a most unremarkable way.
Someone gets a new puppy, and that’s always nice. New babies are like being in a nursery every single day. A blossoming of life from the pages of that friend you met that one time, and you’re sure that if you were to ever meet her, you’d be the best of friends.
A universe of delightful moments tailored specifically for us; it’s a place to share our high points, or more lately, a place to dump our giant screams.
The political unrest is unnerving. It makes me want to vomit, and I’m an emotional mess. Until yesterday, when I had decided to take a shower, I was beginning to favor Nick Nolte’s mug shot. A woman on the heels of turning forty, should be limited in the number of days she is allowed to wear pajamas. Unless, of course, she is grieving for children she has never seen.
My curiosity gets the best of me sometimes. And so, when news came up about the Border, I went from one link to the next reading compelling stories, which took me to the deepest darkest corners of suffering. My writing always lacked a little something. It was well-loved, but felt forced; the despair in the next word suddenly not coming as easily. I worried perhaps that’s it, I’ll just turn into one of those ladies who grows old with her friends on Facebook. Sort of like the Golden Girls, if you throw in some men, a lot more color, and sort of, took over the planet. Facebook’s days are limited. Jane, my 14yo, says, “Facebook is for old people.” She considers anyone above the age of 20, old, so no hard feelings.
In the aftermath of a Facebook explosion of T (Sorry, he isn’t allowed to cross the threshold on my blog, so I’ll just call him Mr. T.) mouth garbage and people getting murdered and kidnapped and complete civil unrest, I began to feel like the world was certainly going to end. As a matter of fact, I would’t be surprised if it did. I just hope I go down in the first round, before the really gruesome suffering settles in.
I’m one of those people who Googles her symptoms, and then assumes she has a rare form of cancer. A few years ago, I convinced myself I was going to die, and panic attacks began settling in. What turned out to be a muscle cyst, was first surveyed using a massive amount of radiation; glorious, legal narcotics pumped through my veins. Sadly, I began to favor the ER and their magic potions. It was quiet there. I could rest for a while.
It took a dinosaur of an old professor down on Music Row to say, “Maybe you aren’t happy.”
That validation was a profound moment of awakening. He was right. I never allowed myself to be happy, and what little I did have of it, was wrapped up in things not meant for me; neither fulfilling nor sustaining.
These oddities that come along and make us feel incredibly abnormal and different in life, usually means it’s time for a dynamic shift.
I broke up with Facebook today.
He was an ass; a waste of perfectly good time and personal space.