Found Guilty

Does anyone else have a really difficult time getting back into the groove of “normal” life after tragedies happen? Tragedies, even those that don’t even have anything to do with me, make me buckle at the knees. I feel tremendous guilt over being happy, and the things I love doing and playing with (skin care, jewelry, artwork, etc.) seem so stupid and petty. How do I talk about coffee scented soap and dangly earrings when there is so much suffering going on?!? And we’ve had so many terrible tragedies in the world, and in our nation, one after the next after the next.

It’s unreal how much pain one person can inflict, and upon so many. And how awful people can be to each other. I’m as guilty of looking down on my neighbor as anyone I’d criticize. I don’t leave the house, for fear of running into people I know. I just don’t have the energy, even on a good day. Granted, I have some mental health challenges, but still… Should it be SO hard to go to the grocery store?

I just wish I knew the answer. How to fix things, how to make everything better. For me and for everyone. I can’t get through an evening without getting irritated at the people I love. So how can I hope for the world to be kinder?

What I do know, amidst a sea of things I don’t understand, is that I have to seek solace. I desperately need comfort. I am weak. Strong in some things, yes, but not in all. What comforts me may not comfort others. That is ok. Different things work for different people, and different things work better at some times than during others.

I need my soaps, my books, my church magazines and talks. I need to send out pretty earrings to people I know will treasure them. I need to lie on the couch while my husband paints my toenails. I need to watch silly Chihuahua videos with my daughter.

I need to figure out how to ‘live happy’, without always feeling like my joy, rare though it be, must be justified. I still haven’t figured out the trick yet, though. But there’s got to be a book for that, right??

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Until We Are Fine

Last week, I was taking too many pills. Not purposefully, but also not by accident.
This week, I’m more solid, starting somewhat anew. Still tired and afraid, but possessing a bit of momentum. Not quite hope, but an expectancy.

I’m trying to move ahead, and have several supportive friends and family members who have helped me unburden. There are moments I feel adrift, propelled by the winds of pointlessness. Then I remember others, and decide to finish buttering the bread, get the dish from the sink to the dishwasher. I decide to answer a ringing telephone. Pretend. 

It will get better, at some point. It already has. But I’m still tired and can’t sleep, still sweaty but freezing. This isn’t going where I meant it to go. 

We have to ask for help. If we don’t ask, no one knows. They just think we’re mean or shy or FINE. But we are not fine, are we?

We are not fine. 

But…

Eat the bread. Drink the tea. Hug the child. Pet the dog. Write the poem. 

Until we are fine, or a facet thereof.

Maybe It Doesn’t Help

Asking for help doesn’t seem to be as effective as I advertise it to be. “Ask for help! Don’t go through it alone!” It seems that asking for help just makes people think you are crazy. And makes them think a) they are saviors to your cause, making it about them rather than about the hurting person, or b) they get angry because you’ve lost your marbles and the inconvenience of it pisses them off.

Either way, not what I was expecting. And I won’t ask for help again.

Simply Flawed

I don’t enjoy feeling like someone is angry at me, and not knowing what I did. No one enjoys it, I’m sure. It does seem like some people deal with it a bit better than others, though. Water off a duck’s back and such. Wish I could be that way. But instead, I’m a dweller. An over-analyzer. And possibly somewhat paranoid.

Character flaw. Just adding it to the list now. Some days I feel there are just far too many flaws than time to fix them.

I’m tired today, and so grateful it’s Friday. My job is a heavy backpack that I like to sling onto the floor with a clunk once Friday at five rolls around. Then comes the disappointment over those all too high Friday night expectations. I’m not 25 any more. Hell, I don’t know if I was ever 25. I’ve been a mom since 18. On once you’re a mom, there seems to be no age but your child’s.

I’m out of energy, out of motivation, and running out of hope in this dead end high desert disaster. The barrenness sometimes seeps right into me, gets me to the core, and I have to do what I can with books and home facials and online shopping to get to another day.

My life is measured by the delivery of Amazon boxes.

At least it’s something.