Tag Archives: lost

Desperately Seeking Okay

I hung up the phone, laid my head down and cried—hard. Every difficulty, every stumble in the past twelve months spilled out and landed in a messy puddle. The tiny fracture weaving its way through my heart finally reached its destination, breaking it into tiny, uneven pieces. The eggshells I continuously balanced on carrying everything on my shoulders were crushed into a fine powder from the weight. The stuffing had finally come out as my threads came undone. My skin and bones were jelly. All of this was entirely too much. If it all ended in a quick flick of the light switch, spilling me into complete and utter darkness that would have been okay. I was not okay.

Young Gun happened to catch me in this pitiful moment of despair and tried rescuing me, but instead, I sucked up the despair quickly and replaced it with anger. Seething, violent, red-hot anger. I suddenly felt like I was going to burst into flames. It was deeply rooted from the bottom of my feet to the top of my head. A small voice in my head tried dousing the flames, whispering “You are not okay” but I barely heard it. My skin burned and sweat beaded my forehead. My hands itched to punch, and so I did. My throat exploded in screams and grunts. The anger bubbled and popped under the surface. I was not okay.

I eventually calmed down, and by eventually I mean a week later. Just now, I am beginning to recognize the lack of grounding. Had I been grounded previously, my reaction would have been different. The physical ache would have felt different. The words would have tasted different. No one and their shenanigans should get me to a place of instability, but over this year I have felt its slow boil and refused to acknowledge it. All it took for the pot to boil over was one more senseless thing.

Sure, I can poke fun at Young Gun and I forgetting to hang damp pants or putting on underwear backward, but there are serious consequences to not taking care of myself. I have been pushing it aside consistently and it finally was too much. The levies finally broke. And so, here I am exhausted and lost after the water receded and the storm subsided. I have been in the belly of this beast for long enough. I have got to find a way out…a way to okay.

The stress is taking a physical toll and it is time for me to put it all down and leave it all be. I have to take it one step at a time. I have to go back to the practices that made me well. I have to remind myself which battles are worth the fight and which people can %#@! off. I can’t be everything to everybody and be nothing to myself. If I want to keep my head, I have to keep reminding myself:

Everything will be okay. I will be okay.


“You Sho Ilz Ugly”

There is no hard, concrete evidence as to why I have found myself on the road to feeling like Who Shot John, but the older I get the closer I get to figure it out. I suppose I could place blame solely on the children.  (Yes, let’s blame them. They can take it) Children tend to suck the life out of you in the early years. Mommy this, throw up in the middle of the night that—it is all very time-consuming. They are certainly the reason why I would look like an entire bag of struggle.

In a conversation with Young Gun, I pointed out that we are a mess collectively. He hasn’t had a haircut in almost a month and I just shaved my armpits, which was about five months overdue. I forgot to get in the shower until the clock struck twelve and collapsed in bed. At that point, a ho bath was more appealing. He forgot to hang his wet clothes and had to wear damp pants this morning. We. Are. A. Mess.

If no one else comes in to slap us around and tell us what messes we are, we must do it ourselves.  Although I must say, The Kids do a fantastic job at letting me know how–err–out of pocket I am. I mean, what is wrong with wearing red sweats, pink tennis shoes, and a green shirt? It’s clothing, right? It works for someone somewhere, why not me? I should not be comfortable with looking like a homeless elf, and he should not be subjected to wearing damp clothes in the middle of November, that’s why not.

Exhaustion plays a roll (Cookie kept us up until ohhh, say, 2 a.m.), but what about the Beyonce’s of the world looking fabulous and parenting? Plenty of people have children, manage to take showers and put on lotion. A friend got pregnant twice and ended up with 2 sets of twins—4 kids all under the age of 7. She runs her own company, cooks stuff, travels and stays pretty put together. She literally wears normal clothing and combs her hair. By those standards, she is already well above my current level. Alas, YG and I have no excuse for overgrown heads and armpits.

I used to have a schedule for self care. I read books, meditated, worked out and did a little something with my face. I dunno what happened. I cleaned up the house on Friday mornings. I got my nails done once a month and my eyebrows too. I wore heels and didn’t leave the house without at least a smack of gloss. This morning I barely managed to put lotion on my face and Chapstick on my lips (after I found it under the couch cushion)…that was the extent of the extra.

I won’t say what his issue is (cuz noneya), but before we end up with meth-face, I put in a call to my aggressive Twin. She kicks ass first and doesn’t even bother taking names. With her in charge, we will definitely get it together. This Twin, this softer, lazier side of myself, can’t get the job done. So, it is time to kick my own ass…and Young Gun’s too. At this rate we’ll end up on a special addition of My 600lb Life: Chaplipped Hairy Hoarders Edition and we can’t have that. We know better so therefore we should do better.


TGIT: No Looking Back

It appears that every year the theme of Thursday nights (Scandal anyway) fits my life. Last year it was “The Secret Is Out”. That explains itself to my particular 2013 situation. This year is no different: “No Looking Back”. Cudos to you Ms. Rhimes…no wonder why I have a crush on you.

Every Thursday for the last I don’t know how many years, I grab a bottle of wine, a naughty dessert or fancy cheese, and curl up on the couch with tissues in hand. For two hours I allow myself to get lost in the genius that is the imagination of a woman who is no different than me. She has a life, children, a job (a little more glam than mine, but we are talking loose comparisons here), big boobs and jiggly bits. For two hours, wine works to loosen my brain and fog the thoughts of broken budgets, late rent, cheating husbands, argumentative kids, the price of gas and dreams deferred. For two hours there is…..nothing.

Last year, Thursday night was a saving grace. Friday through Wednesday I lived to get lost. I needed to get lost. Lost in fiction. I needed to unravel the tight knot of Life and breathe. The secret was indeed out and I needed to blur the loss.

This year it will be different. Different from the years before–blindly watching and sneaking into bed next to my husband…smiling about the cliff hanger or the tears cried over fictional people. Different from last year blindly watching and collapsing on the couch refusing to sneak into bed next to my husband. This year I will slip into bed alone, still smiling over a night that solely belonged to me. No tiny annoyances pulling at the frayed edges, no restless sleepy thoughts of what I was trying to run away from. This year there is no looking back. There are only decisions and consequences. There are no second looks and there is certainly no glancing back…for the characters…for the fans….for me.

It could be crazy, being this connected to fiction, but it’s my crazy and I love it. I love being connected to the fiction, the work, the genius behind it all. I love being linked to the crazy, twisty, good of the genius–the crazy, twisty, good of the unraveling of the knot of Life. Cheers to Thursdays. Cheers to Rhimes. Cheers to never…not ever looking back.