I'm hopeful to the point of exhaustion. I look for the bright side till I'm gasping for air. I try to see the best even if it means tearing my eyes out.
I'm also an asshole, a loud mouth and a know-it-all.
I am sure of the former because I feel it; the latter is true because I've been told it is.
Can you see the thick mark that bi-sects me from tip to toe making me an imperfect mess that doesn't always make sense? Is it obvious? Tell me. And tell me before you want to punch me in the face with it. Tell me before you're so angry it's the beginning, middle and end of the whole conversation. Tell me when I still have time to try and fix it.
Or don't. Honestly. My cup runneth over with the tired, overwhelmed, nauseating gurglings these types of News Reports give me. Let's all agree right now that if you have bad feelings for me, you need to keep them to yourself. You've had your chance.
And to the point, if you have ever felt the need to and have acted on the impulse to bombard me with my horrible self and feed me a nice, steamy plate of shit, I want you to know that it tastes terrible. I also want you to know that if you didn't turn that magnifying glass on yourself and check out your own blackheads, zits and imperfections, that you can go fuck yourself.
Broken hearts lead to loneliness leads to loathing leads to reflection leads to the possibility of (maybe) love. For me, that special and stunning delivery of love comes in the perfect size for my family. My hot husband, my kids. My one and only's.
The upside of heartbreak? It puts me in the blocks when I need to sprint to the side of my beloveds when they've been struck down and pounded in the chest. But as much as it gives an outline of empathy, my pain is a tipped over kiddy pool in the face of a Tsunami when one of my kids is hurting.
My hopefulness loses air, my bright side is a total eclipse and I can't see anything but rage and red and wonder if Amazon Prime can get a flame-thrower to me in 24 hours.
And it's always the littlest elf whose broken heart breaks mine hardest. She needs more care than the rest of us. She is the synchronized swimmer whose legs never stop keeping her perfect torso from showing any signs of weakness or hurt. When she fell apart last night I wanted to kill people. She slept next to me like a ghost, tiny and curled and so still.
I cried on the way to work. I cried all day. I figured out a plan to help her get through the mess of pain and stress. I screamed in the car on my way home and by the time her bus dropped her off I felt ready-ish to guide her back to a safe, unbroken place.
So when she came up the stairs and into the living room I announced: I have a plan! For what? She says... Uhm, well, how are you? Are you ok? Yeah. I'm hungry, too!
Struck! I was smashed in the mouth with her ability to adapt. Her day brought her serenity while mine brought more anguish until I figured out murder wasn't really an option and I needed to get rational.
And she has been bouncing around the damn house ever since.
She's gonna figure it out. She will keep kicking those legs and she'll stay above water.
And I will try to remember that she is not me.
Forever indebted to the universe that she is not me.
I'm also an asshole, a loud mouth and a know-it-all.
I am sure of the former because I feel it; the latter is true because I've been told it is.
Can you see the thick mark that bi-sects me from tip to toe making me an imperfect mess that doesn't always make sense? Is it obvious? Tell me. And tell me before you want to punch me in the face with it. Tell me before you're so angry it's the beginning, middle and end of the whole conversation. Tell me when I still have time to try and fix it.
Or don't. Honestly. My cup runneth over with the tired, overwhelmed, nauseating gurglings these types of News Reports give me. Let's all agree right now that if you have bad feelings for me, you need to keep them to yourself. You've had your chance.
And to the point, if you have ever felt the need to and have acted on the impulse to bombard me with my horrible self and feed me a nice, steamy plate of shit, I want you to know that it tastes terrible. I also want you to know that if you didn't turn that magnifying glass on yourself and check out your own blackheads, zits and imperfections, that you can go fuck yourself.
Broken hearts lead to loneliness leads to loathing leads to reflection leads to the possibility of (maybe) love. For me, that special and stunning delivery of love comes in the perfect size for my family. My hot husband, my kids. My one and only's.
The upside of heartbreak? It puts me in the blocks when I need to sprint to the side of my beloveds when they've been struck down and pounded in the chest. But as much as it gives an outline of empathy, my pain is a tipped over kiddy pool in the face of a Tsunami when one of my kids is hurting.
My hopefulness loses air, my bright side is a total eclipse and I can't see anything but rage and red and wonder if Amazon Prime can get a flame-thrower to me in 24 hours.
And it's always the littlest elf whose broken heart breaks mine hardest. She needs more care than the rest of us. She is the synchronized swimmer whose legs never stop keeping her perfect torso from showing any signs of weakness or hurt. When she fell apart last night I wanted to kill people. She slept next to me like a ghost, tiny and curled and so still.
I cried on the way to work. I cried all day. I figured out a plan to help her get through the mess of pain and stress. I screamed in the car on my way home and by the time her bus dropped her off I felt ready-ish to guide her back to a safe, unbroken place.
So when she came up the stairs and into the living room I announced: I have a plan! For what? She says... Uhm, well, how are you? Are you ok? Yeah. I'm hungry, too!
Struck! I was smashed in the mouth with her ability to adapt. Her day brought her serenity while mine brought more anguish until I figured out murder wasn't really an option and I needed to get rational.
And she has been bouncing around the damn house ever since.
She's gonna figure it out. She will keep kicking those legs and she'll stay above water.
And I will try to remember that she is not me.
Forever indebted to the universe that she is not me.
No comments:
Post a Comment