Hit It

Ever have all your shit hit the fan?

Some days, its all just there, splayed before you, gobbed on the wall and in your hair and everywhere you look and when you move you feel it everywhere.

These are the days that have you sobbing in revalation after revalation in the work bathroom stall at 9:45pm.

Life happens. Things Change. Memories are made, then forgotten. Hearts hurt. Fingers bleed.

Nothing that unusual happened today. Lots of little unlikeable things happened in one day, but nothing I haven't bitched about here before.

What the difference was in today's concoction of bullshit that had me bent over my panties dropping tears onto my kneecaps, I'm not exactly sure.

Am I the only one who needs no rational reason whatsoever to have a total breakdown? Sure, my life is entertaining, I apparently thrive on the drama of it all, and when I am dull I find things that will frustrate me and fixate on them. I guess the point is that a meltdown of this magnitude doesn't have anything to do with the logical side of life... I am riding the wave of the gut-feeling-initiated-life, and with the crash I find myself soaked in salty water.

Well. Here I have a reconing. A recognizing. A self evaluation.
Dangerous to prescribe one's own medicine, I know this.
But I have a bit of clarity through these swollen eyes.
I know decisions and actions have to be made.
I put both off intensely.
With all the energy I've put into letting things be, I could have built a bridge to Taiwan by now.
I notice, but until it compiles itself in just such a way, no one else sees my mutilating habits.

The wounds are bleeding today, they hurt, and they are all demanding attention which leaves me exhausted and weak and not able to tend to any of them.
My patchwork dressings are piled on the floor, right there in the shit that hit the fan.

How long before I clean the mess?? Thats the real bitch of it all; I can't tell whats new and whats old.
Do I walk over the shit to get new dressings for my wounds, or do I shovel the shit while my wounds seep?
If I start to dig, do I create new wounds?
Will it take a day or a year to make any progress?
Does it matter which I tend to first, really??

Achingly, I retreat.

I will go home and pack a bag to go to my home town.
The last time I was there, I stood in my dad's driveway and dropped a single tear on his shirt, knowing I never needed to go back there for anything, even my mother's gravestone.
I do this trip, these 1000 miles on my car, these 16 hours of roadtrip, these 12 work hours missed, because I have a poster that lists one of Life's Little Lessons as "go home for the holidays" and follows it with "don't get too big for your britches."
It is just for him. And his dying parents. He will pay me for his time, I will thank him, and he will not know that he has made me feel like a whore for 10 years; we both know I won't spend time with him unless he pays me. I will be polite and hide my pain and joys and anything that means anything to me, I will eat and drink and give myself pep talks in the bathroom.
I will bring a shovel and fresh dressings.
And this is only the tip of the shit covered iceberg of what hurts tonight.
I will pack the gratitude journal too, just to keep from drowning in this muck.

My prayers and Susie Sunshine thoughts are with you and yours this holiday weekend. Travel safe, pack light. Be glad you have family and friends, remember to say Thank You and mean it. Don't eat everything you see, it will be there for leftovers later. I'll be better soon, I promise, but know you don't need to carry the weight of the world today because I am doing it for you.