It was the worst of times, it was the best of times.

Warning: there’s a sappy, muhfugging saccharine, jackass Care Bear stare, shoot rainbows out of your belly button, have you been drinking with unicorns? kind of optimism at the end of all this. Because I have had my struggles, somewhere in all those dark hours and months of kicking endlessly toward the surface of whatever circumstances I felt I was drowning in, I began to see that waves cycle their highs and lows; began to have faith that one day it would be my turn to crest again; came to understand that it is only the deepest tragedies which are truly permanent. I caught some sort of courageous, or experienced, or just cowboy-ed up/big girl knickers on infection that flips the script. Makes you realize how easy it is to be up when things are good -shii-it, anybody can do that!- and start to measure success by how well you do when it’s not your *ucking turn to win.

I have stumbled. I was hasty. I blinded myself with fantastic ideas about things that were only just within my reach. I told myself the story about limited possibilities and I rushed. I have cost myself a not insignificant pile of dollar bills. I made an expensive mistake: out of hope and a non-trivial dose of fear, with a sprinkling of weighting too heavily another’s advice.

I am embarrassed and angry with myself. I’m still wavering: What did I prove? Is there anyway to save face? How do I prove I’m not just a dumb feathermucker?

Or maybe I am just a dumb feathermucker. In which case perhaps it is my time to win at that. And while I really want to go out (with appropriate safety gear) and break a whole Crate & Barrel full of dish and glassware for the satisfying sound and feel of busting something in reality, I’m working on some other approaches. And that’s where this curious infectious optimism comes in. I’m proud of that fact that I didn’t keep on going and lose all my dollar bills, just to uphold some image. I’m proud I’ve earned that many dollar bills to lose. And I’m surprised and pleased to find myself reaching for the running shoes, writing pissy posts and tweets, channeling my energy to pep up tonight’s performance, looking for the foolery in my foolishness. It is to laugh: to keep from crying, to strengthen those stomach muscles after being doubled over in regret, to stutter your breath until the sigh of relief comes.

What are you worth? What is your every moment of being carefree, confident, uncomplicatedly joyful worth? Way more than any number of dollar bills. And it gets a little more valuable every time you own your shit, and love yourself anyway.


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