Must. Speak.

Rain. A beautifully dismal pall over this Sunday morning. Yet, I have been loving this kind of atmospheric weather this autumn. I live next to a cemetery, and every fall the trees turn brilliant colors, I can see them now defiantly glowing even through the rain.

I got a text last night from a friend. A couple of weeks after the email she sent that I didn’t answer. I am making every effort to keep up with the things I must. But the other things in my life, even things that I like. Folks have had to nudge me a little to get me going. I’m hiding. Ostrich-ing, as I call it. I’m not ignoring reality so much as I’m ‘in the bunker’ because actually complaining or moaning or freaking out (all of which I privately do) doesn’t get the work done and right now for the next 27 –maybe fewer– work days. Work is what I should get done.

Should. Hmmm. That should may have just eased my morning pain a little. I’ll get the work done, I will. Just. Hell, I’m leaving already  what are they going to do, fire me?

Bleah. I hate that negativity (which is why I am hiding). I don’t like putting it out in the world or burdening my friends with it. This is conditioning. From my family, who love me, but are all way more level-headed and have made me feel like I might be having a psychotic break every time I express anger. It gets ugly. I yell and scream and stamp my feet. I don’t throw things though that would be wildly satisfying. And  I cut my hand open with the screw on a pair of scissors once when I grabbed them and stabbed them into a counter top because a moving crew had screwed up everything about my move and would not refund my money (Labor Ready. I hope they are out of business and the proprietor is in jail).  These days. I run (or walk) or dance. And I write. There’s a screed in Seconds. You can’t miss it. But I want to do it more. I want to talk. I want to purge these ugly feelings. Not so much to make them someone else’s problem, just to let them air out and hopefully dissipate in the gigantic world out there.

Same basic problem I have had since I started. I HATE my job. Hate it. Hate it. Hate it. If it were an inanimate object I would beat it to cinders with a crowbar and cry no tears. We are breaking up, but we still have to live together (sort of) until our lease is up, the day before Thanksgiving. I deluded myself that it was the middle of October when I said that. Not the beginning still…The truth is –the comforting thing– I can make another decision. At any time I can just give up. But the longer I stay, the fatter the coffers. Better as we go into the cold.

It. Is. Okay. I tell myself through gritted teeth. I am lucky to have such problems. I know this to be true and it resonates. I  just wish it didn’t hurt so much. And like many with persistent pain, sometimes I get angry at it, so as not to be sad. To take some control.

It’s getting better over here. It is. But just like any journey sometimes you can see and feel the progress you’re making. Sometimes it feels like you’re barely moving at all.

That’s the philosophical pabulum I feed myself at the end of my little rants. It works. It’s a tradition. I make fun of it, but I do it because it works. And next here’s my cure. Here’s how I get by. Fiction. I’m listening to one book reading another and I let myself get absorbed in the British police drama Line of Duty. I like to see others in grimmer (or funnier, or sadder, etc.) situations than I. I like to pretend I’m just a character. Today with the gray skies and the rhythmic rain I feel like I might be in a William Gibson novel –in peril, not fully understanding, witness to surprising, appalling near-miss violence, kidnapped, dragged around internationally, persisting, surviving, triumphing. The spirit always seems to stay intact, sometimes grow stronger. I hope that’s my arc.


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