Batting A Thousand

shetland-pony-1250533-639x424I did not post yesterday.  Apologies for that.  I’m sure you were all on extraordinarily sharp tenterhooks about what’s going on with me. It’s not as though there’s a thing in the wide universe to catch your attention beyond my daily drivel.  But I did feel regretful I spent yesterday dancing and prancing about and forgot to post here.

So, today, I have decided not to post twice, but just to make this single post longer and to take some care with it so that it is not exhaustively useless.  It is hard to imagine how I am going to make that happen, but I choose to believe that there is, in some way, something substantive for me to talk about.

Of late, I have had a sense that the stories, the sensations I want to illuminate and share are duplications of ones I have shared before.  I do not feel progress.  I do not feel as though I am reaching into the dangerous or broken or unchallenged countries within myself and pushing towards a reckoning.  I feel like I have been swimming in the kiddie pool for six years.  For a whole life. At the same time, I have to aware that what I am choosing to put out there is being put out into a public forum.  It’s the internet, yo.  I can’t go from being a person who can’t quietly talk about her relationships with people she’s known more than half her life in a small room to someone who suddenly has no fear about what the fallout could be when you dump your raw, abraded carcass on the slab and say, pick this apart. Batter this heart.

Especially in this new day and age.  People are kind, but people are also terrible.  To splay oneself so fully and utterly only becomes worthwhile in my mind once we get to the other side of something.  I want to report: I’m in love! I have a new job! I’m getting married! I’m moving! I published a thing! I drove to the other side of town! I changed in some incontrovertible way!

I don’t know, necessarily, how to get there, though. I don’t necessarily know that my fear is about telling you TMI or negative things.  It’s nearly Thanksgiving and this year has been so hard on me.  It’s been hard on the world, of course.  It’s been, individually and collectively, a clusterfuck.   I know there’s empathy accessible to me, I also know that I feel a little bit possessive of my own pain.  My own disappointments, my own jarring realizations about my own behavior. I don’t think it’s shown in the writing, save that the writing has weakened for the lack of truth-telling. It’s pasty and mealy and won’t hold up under its own weight.  Like a shit meringue. It reflects someone who has been trying very hard not to feel the depth of everything she has to feel.  To not go through the doors she knows she has to go through.

My feelings of reduced competency at work, the money being halved, feeling small and slighted and ultimately forgotten while I struggle, all the while the feelings of having brought my sister into this negative situation and watching her have to struggle with the situation.  My worries about my mother and her health, my thoughts about her never knowing me as a person who experiences romantic love, the demands others make on me for empathy and positivity when I don’t trust that I can receive it from them.  The sense that I will never be able to unclench enough to change course.  That I don’t have the werewithal to take these steps, to turn off the internet, to start talking to men who are actually available, to get myself and my house in a state where I don’t shuffle around access so that nobody ever sees the full mess at one time, to figure out how to stop letting the driving situation get worse.

It’s a lot to try and sit in bed and unlock.  The ability to do anything is the issue at hand.  My own inertia is what I am trying to call out, saying is fucking my life up, is warping my spirit into a putty, a shit meringue if you will.  But, as frustrated as I sometimes am with the posts I put out when I am making no effort to work on myself, a lesson that I keep relearning is that even amidst these times when it feels like the whole of my life is on pause, that’s not true.

Programs are running in the background, both good and bad.  Paths are opening up.  Windows are closing.  Time is looping.  We’re a wave and a particle.  There’s every opportunity for things to improve and/or worsen.  And while we wait for stars to align, it’s life.  Running through our fingertips.

It is a marathon, not a sprint, another belabored metaphor as so many are wont to say these days when you are considering how much of the rotten elephant you want to force down your gullet in one go.

There are big, bold flashes of light to follow even if they are only caused by the tiniest of ions rubbing together.  The heavens provide and the heavens forfend.

A list of short, domestic facts:

The pots and pans are clean as evidenced by my wrinkly fingertips.
We went in and did as the boss asked and put the checks in the bank.
We also went and got a breakfast of cornbread rancheros that was delicious and nearly filling until I recalled that time I got so deadly sick on a homemade version.
I have work tomorrow, and then, with a packed bag and my xbox and computer, maybe… on comes the Thanksgiving experience + potentially, another social gathering without all of  the family.
I have been reading a Terry Pratchett book and think I am finally getting why his works are so beloved.
I am here….Now.

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