Monday, 12/13/2011, 9:47PM
I’m alone. I want them all here with me right now, but I’m alone. I was about to go to bed but decided that I needed to say goodnight to my sweet-biddy dog first. He was alone in the den, just lying there on his side, waiting for me. As soon as my hand stroked his muzzle I felt my emotions rise. I pressed my face against his fur the way I did with my animals when I was a kid. He’s always there for me, yet I don’t take the opportunity to pet him enough. That alone is enough to make me cry.
I hear angry opossums figuring it out in the backyard. Their cat-like squeals and hisses trace my spine like crawling fingers. My kids aren’t here and my daughter is sick, I miss them. I wish they were with me every night. I’d tuck them in bed, safe and warm; and greet them in the morning with a, “Rise and Shine.” They’d laugh at the quarreling rodents, run out barefooted, onto the deck, and into the cold, just to see their neon-eyes glowing in the dark. I can see their giggling expressions, cheeks brightening, at the thought of something going bump in the night.
I have to fight this urge to control. I want my children, here- in my environment. I don’t trust myself right now; I’m running a play in my mind. It tells me one thing and a minute later it tells me the opposite. Everything I thought I knew about myself is an imagined version. My roots suck water from fear; but grace and love are emerging. I’m drowning, yet breathing. I’m coming to, which is scarier than coming undone. I have to let them be. I can’t save them from everything; I don’t have all the answers. There’s a part of me that’s twisting like a dangling rope, the turn to the right is tight-my grip on them, the left is where I let go over that which I’m already powerless. Where will it drop?
At a meeting tonight, someone said, “Welcome,” as I cried, “Welcome to the real you,” I smiled an, “Enlightened,” smile. I’m turning into one of those, “Women with Integrity,” I’m that freak. I may actually start foaming at the mouth once I really get started. It’s called an, “Inventory,” a personal inventory of all my bullshit. Q. Who do I resent? A. Everyone. Q. Why? A. I’m the problem. “If I’m not the solution, there isn’t a problem.” It’s good to be me right now. Welcome to my brain, she’s fun.