L’absence rend le coeur plus affectueux. Mais il vaut mieux pour faire oublier le cœur .

And so it goes. 

When habits become destructive, and distractions become painful, sometimes it’s best to know when to walk away. That’s a hard thing to do, especially for me.

I’m a stubborn cuss. I don’t like giving up, not when I know what I’ve invested into a situation. But sometimes, every hoop I set on fire and cartwheel through will still not be enough to garner the rewards I seek. And as desperately as I’d like that not to be the case, it is out of my hands.

If my best isn’t good enough, does that mean I’m not good enough? Am I really subpar to everyone else? I spend a lot of time convincing myself that I have a right to feel equal. That my intellect and emotions are not annoying drivel to be ignored. I’m not stupid, you know. My jokes are not coincidental… if I’m playing the butt of your jokes, you can damn well believe I was aware of that going in. I’m not afraid of your laughter. I’m not so uptight that I don’t know how to let go. I am THE QUEEN of letting go, in fact. 

The problem arises when I realize I’m the only one laughing. It’s not because I’m ill-mannered or uncouth. I’m not a degenerate. This is just how I cope. I look for humor. I seek laughter with the edges of a panic attack creeping in. I seek the comfort of a soft voice and memorable laugh. And when I find them, I commit them to memory and hold onto that like a plastic glow stick. Eventually, it fades. But while it glows bright, it is magical. I hold on to the useless glow stick long after its expiration, hoping that some chance fate will revive its glow. In that way, I am always the optimist.

But the glow sticks I’ve been clinging to are a dull haze. There’s no light to be found there. I can either seek new glow sticks, or just adjust my eyes to the dim and move on without them. What is life without that glow? Where is the warmth I need to fuel the optimism I survive by? 

So there it is. I carry these plastic tubes. They used to light my way. I loved these glow sticks. They were magical to me. They were my breath, my life, my laughter. But they don’t glow any longer.

It’s time to let them go. 

I just hope I can forget how much they meant to me.

Why I Can Write You Off

They warn you not to piss off authors. They say you’ll end up the hapless victim in their next bestseller. Maybe. But are you really that scared of being a faceless fictitious slaughter? Doesn’t seem like such a threat, does it? Be a little more concerned when that pissed author decides to offer you a haircut with a scythe. THAT might be a bit unsettling. Particularly if they start by saying, “I’m years overdue for an eye exam…”

But no such thing happens if I get pissed off. I won’t drain your last bloody ounce by vampire leeching. I won’t decapitate you with a flying tacking iron. I won’t get you drunk and push your VW off a cliff. 

Not in fiction, any way.

Piss me off, and you’ll know soon enough. Hurt my feelings, and the repercussions won’t be a mystery. It won’t take six months to a year for the book to hit the stands before you know what’s what.

I don’t seek vengeance. Not through stories, not in poems. 

When I’m hurt, I simply go away.

See? Not so scary. 

Somewhere in Between

“The hardest thing in this world is to live in it.” – Buffy Summers

I’ve spent a lifetime jumping through hoops. 

As a child, with my honor roll report cards, careful etiquette, and seclusion. 

As a teenager, with my high morals, my Christian band, my self-censorship. 

And as an adult, still playing the dutiful child, responsible mother, reliable worker.

I’m exhausted.

They say there are rewards for being compassionate and generous. I don’t know from that. Maybe it’s wrong to expect justification or appreciation. After all these years, expecting anything at all seems a bit fruitless. But I still hope. NOT for praise. I just want to be respected. I want to be understood.

Today, I went to visit my mom for Mother’s Day. I went with gifts, prepared to bust her out of the joint for the evening. But not long after I got there, I realized she was in no condition to go anywhere. So I offered to find a restaurant and buy us dinner, and then watch movies with her in her room while we ate. It was all I could really do. She’d almost fallen and I could barely keep her from hitting the floor… I couldn’t lift her up if she fell in a restaurant or movie theater. Still, she was irritated with me for not doing a better job at keeping her upright.

I’m assuming some recent changes to her medications are proving problematic. The ‘tremors’ as she refers to them, are really more like earthquakes. She dropped her food, knocked a cup of tea off her tray, in addition to other sudden spasms. And each time, my response wasn’t quick enough. Finally, I went for her nurse, to get some assistance for her. To that, she just snapped that I could at least stop to ‘help my own mother.’ I never did finish my dinner. Lost my appetite anyway.

The highlight was the end of the evening, as I told her I loved her, and her response was a very unenthusiastic, “I love you too, I guess.” In front of her nurse. Stellar.

Not the first time I was reminded in my adult life that I don’t measure up. She used to throw that at me, that this friend or that friend told her I was a bad daughter. Or when church folks would imply that my moms difficulties were Gods retribution against me for being such a sinner. She brags all the time about my brother, but he’s not the one doing her laundry, her grocery shopping, or taking her places. He didn’t let her live with him for 20 years so she wouldn’t be without a good home. He’s made of gold, though. For all the times I sat in the ER cause her blood sugar was through the roof, all the times I actually participated in her therapy sessions, he was never a part of any of that. Even as a child, when I would go with my dad to visit her in the penitentiary. Without my brother, because he refused to go. 

I love him, I do. But where was he today? Not helping her off the floor. Nope. That was all me.

I step back after this, and I look at where it’s all headed. I look at where it came from. And I’m an infinitesimal speck in all this. The difference I make is negligable. Not for lack of trying. I cannot keep going this way.

Not everyone is made for greatness. And if everyone was, then no one would ever truly be great. I am sub par, so others can shine. 

This is not to say I’m giving up. I don’t throw in towels. Fuck you if you think I’m easily broken. I’ve been through a lot of stuff that most will never be able to stand through, and I’m still here. And maybe, in that way, I am great. 

Maybe this is the cocoon. Maybe this will be transformative. 

Maybe this is where I cease to be, and she takes over.

God help you all. 

Not A Mused

Not all emotions are inspiring. 

That’s said with a certain amount of subjectivity. For many, they coast through a plot riding whatever wave of feeling they are experiencing. They season their stews with all the feels. Good for them, I say… and make a mental note not to partake of some of their stews. I’m on a diet.

But I can’t do that… utilizing every experience to craft another twist. For me, it’s too personal to be applied to some random piece of fictitious flesh. The shit I put up with from day to day, the stress, the obligations, heaped on top of emotional disappointments and heartaches… hell, I don’t write tragedies. Is there even still a market for hopeless melancholy in a Prozac-and-Botoxed-Smiles world? It’s not about getting paid at this point. 

It’s about being heard. 

Besides, is that what I want you to hear? A metaphor about the debaucle that is my life? A bad joke with a dead-pan punchline? Too many tears in not enough beer? Why the fuck am I asking you? 

I don’t want pity. I don’t want any trite sorries or consolations. Life is a shitbag wearing a three piece Armani suit. And I’m not assuming it’s any worse for me than it is for anyone else. So why dress my stories with the bad seasonings of my day to day?

Which means, when things go bad, I shut up shop. 

It’s a self preservation mechanism. It’s all I can do to function mechanically, sometimes. Don’t expect creativity on top of that. I cannot cope with my stresses that way. I don’t take pills, I don’t see a therapist. I keep my inner postal at bay by closing in. I applaud writers that can funnel and channel and kumbayah their setbacks into some stellar gem of literature. I wish I could do the same.

I need to be writing. I need to push it all out of my head, duck down, and get it done. I need to remind myself that every setback is merely another slight hill that I will climb. Pretty soon, I won’t even feel winded. I’ll barely notice the inclines. I’ll barely notice anything at all. Pretty soon, yes.

But damn, how I wish I was already there.