Today I get up late. There are signs in the kitchen that my thirteen year old, Sasha, has made a balanced breakfast for herself and gone to school. I eat the first thing I see - Wheat Thins, and heat up old coffee. Please.
I walk about the house and wonder who the hell got it so messy. Of course, it's the dog's fault, he's like living with a goat - my world is covered in Gus, be it his hair or the crap he's dragged out of the garbage can, which I haven't bothered to find the top to since it disappeared. Please.
I go into the bathroom and the plants are dead, and have been for several weeks. I take a shower and just how many bottles of empty shampoo did I try before I found one with actual product in it? Three. Please.
I get out and there are no towels - where are they? Downstairs in the laundry pile. All of them? Please.
Where are my clean clothes? Why is there no toilet paper on the roll? Where are my keys? When did my bangs start blocking my sight line? Why don't I have any cash? Why am I wading through grass to get to my car? Do I still only have a cup and a half of gas? Is that going to get me to the grocery store? Why is my bill so high? Why did I run out of absolutely everything at once? Or did I...
I get home and I prepare to sit. I'm going to meditate but I can't because I'm not in the right chair. So I sit in the rocker. Wrong. I sit in the leather chair and it's too close to the computer and I can still hear the hum. I sit on the couch and Gus jumps up and wants to sit on me. I sit in the red chair. Okay.
Here it is today: mucho grande chatter, chatter, chatter, relax my feet, calves, shins, knees, thighs, etc., etc. hit the third eye, really bright. Blinding. Chatter, chatter, less, less, okay now there's my breath finally, steady, steady -
I'm sitting cross-legged and cross-armed, pouting, in my extremely messy bedroom back on Mumford Road and I'm in gradeschool. My mom is already flying on her speed - excuse me, diet pills - and cleaning the bathroom as though there is going to be a performance of major surgery in it forthwith. Singing loudly. She has just chastised me for my messy room, but done it in a passive way, as though it's not really part of her house - and, to me, as though I'm not really part of her family.
I've seen this scene before. But today there's something new. There's my thoughts added. And they are: "I wish she'd just ask me if I needed help. But she won't so I'm not participating. Period."
There's me in my pajamas, heading for bed. I'm in junior high. "Good night, mom." She looks up from her gimlet and waves little wavies at me - "Toodles." And here are my thoughts again, "I wish she'd just say goodnight and maybe even...I love you...? I could sleep forever."
I'm in the airport, about to head back to New York from a visit to see my mom. There's a lot of people about and a lot of hugs and kisses goodbye. My mom looks around, taking it all in and here I say, "Bye mom. Thanks for everything." She looks at me, but this time I see it. She looks like she's five and scared to death. She grabs me like I think she's going to hit me, but instead pulls me in close to her - too close and way, way too tight, almost violent. "I love you, dammit," she says. Then walks away.
And now I'm an adult, 53 actually, and I've run out of gas and eaten crap for breakfast in a messy house where I can't find anything, with no groceries in it and where the lawn hasn't been mown for a couple of weeks. And finally, finally I wonder: why don't I love myself anymore?
I've been waiting. Waiting for things to straighten out. But the problem is, I've been waiting for that "thing" to straighten itself out and make itself known for 53 years. But she's gone and she's not coming back. And she did love me...as best an addict could.
She should have cherished me. But she didn't. She couldn't.
A lot of people love me today. A lot. But I'm still waiting to be cherished.
How much love can a person miss out on? A lot. How much would I love to stop missing out on what's already in front of me? A lot.
It's becoming clear to me that perhaps in all this waiting - this time for a job or for enough money or for some "right" man - I could actually take care of myself and my surroundings. And love myself again. Maybe then I'd stop missing out on what I already have.
Please.
Posts
I was thinking the other day about how certain people in your lives can change your day, just with a hello or a status update in Facebook, or a blog post. And I wasn't thinking about parents, or my closest friends (though some have this ability), but those people who I seldom see who still manage to touch my life profoundly with the smallest of gestures. This came to mind because I (finally) got a job. A very part-time minimum wage job, but it's a job, and the people there actually respect their employees (oops, that's a different post ...). And the orientation - run by this fantastic woman with whom I used to work. I suddenly remembered how much I missed her smile or laughter, and how absolutely wonderful it was to see her again. And I thought of the other people in my life who have this ability, even if it's not always a smile, to make me feel better somehow - more connected, I don't know what. You were the third person on the list, Nancy. Maybe it's not the cherish that you want, but I do cherish every post and every link and status update. I can't "like" every single one of them - this comment is stalkerish enough - but on really bad days, they definitely were a link to sanity, and much needed humor, as well as honesty.
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