You asked for unfiltered… Here, the things I couldn’t say last night:
I feel bitter. I feel brittle. Resentful. Jealous. Paranoid. Probably I feel afraid, but it’s harder to get to that base layer of afraid. Bitter, on the other hand? Bitter is right there on the surface, the hard, hard surface. And I feel ashamed. Good people don’t go around owning up to bitter.
I want to smash beautiful things.
Last night, on the bathroom floor on your old comforters next to the lone pipe of heat, I noticed my thoughts. I knew they weren’t really true, but I was believing them anyway. I didn’t have it in me to do the inquiry I often find helpful (plus I find it hard to ask myself the questions in my head without losing track when I am upset ) but Byron Katie was there. In my mind’s eye she was sitting in a chair, calm as could be, near me. She was very much present but very much not in my face about it. She wasn’t even asking me the questions. She just sat there, with those kind and piercing eyes, not going anywhere. As if I was it. No one else, nothing else, mattered.
I said to Byron Katie in my mind: “Who will take care of me?”
She nodded ever so slightly and then, very slowly, said back to me: “Who will take care of you?”
I think the conversation about your finances had brought that thought right out to the front, although it had been hidden to me when we were sitting on your bed trying to talk, defensive and take-this-bull-by-the-horns-hard that I was.
Who will take care of me?
And then, still on the bathroom floor, “I messed up.” And right on cue, the mind brought what it calls its proof of failures:
Your Honor, members of the jury, I present you with Exhibit A: 45 years old and just making it. Exhibit B: 45 and no kids. Not even a one. Exhibit C: 45 and her monthly cycles doing sometimes-odd things the implication of which she doesn’t want to think about. Basically, your honor and dear jurors in the case of This Woman v.–
Versus what? This Woman v. her life? This woman’s actual life v. her thoughts about it? Thoughts that can be summed up as 45 and living, pretty much, month-to-month with short-numbered monthly cycles? This woman with a man she loves who is going through his very own endings and fears and insecurities, this man who loves her but can give her no guarantees of security?
Scared. Nothing to show for my life. “I messed up.”
I must sound like a broken record to you about so many of these things, and the fact that I must sound like a broken record to you makes me try to keep these orphaned and childless thoughts to myself most of the times they come up, but on the bathroom floor in the middle of the night, there they were.
This morning I walked into my house. My housemates had already left and the house was empty. They had put up the Christmas tree last night, the Christmas tree I had told them, “OK, but do it without me.” I hardened at the sight of it this morning and then walked around choked up, then crying. Probably because I secretly loved it. Probably because I had, myself, been the one who had left me out of it.
When I stop trying to distract myself, when I stop getting or checking just one more whatever, when I stop from putting (or thinking of putting) one more thing in my mouth, when I stop from playing one more round of Solitaire, when I stop–
I could cry and cry and cry. Because I secretly love so many of the things I want to smash.
“Sometimes I feel very sad.” When Kat Edmonson sings it, the record isn’t broken.