If any of you are moon babies, or whatever you have to be in order to understand the pull of the universe and tides and astrology or whatever it is that's causing me to be a colossal bitch this week, could you message me? My panties are perpetually bunched up and it’s chafing my chi. And the people closest to me are the biggest triggers, which in turn makes them the biggest targets, too.
(Except, of course, Chicago. She knows I can be mad as hell but somehow never at her. It’s the best. Everyone should have a Chicago. Not MY Chicago, though. Go find your own. See? I’m back to being a bitch. Am I blowing your mind yet?)
I knew this week was going to catch up with me. I had a great birthday weekend, full of friends and good wishes. But as the week has progressed, I’ve become a little more pensive and a little more cranky. I’ve yelled at my kids (to be fair, they kind of deserved it), I’ve snarled at the husband (he may have deserved it too), and I’ve just been seething in general.
I think part of it is because the harder I try to stand tall and brave, the harder I have to try to stand tall and brave. And you know what? All the trying combined with all the end-of-year school assignments, and all the keeping the house clean and all the laundry and all the work and all the whatnot, leaves me wishing I was somewhere warm, drinking something cold, completely alone. (Chicago can come.)
Any place will do, as long as I’m not required to speak and nobody needs a snack, a signature, or a foot massage.
I want to sit in the sun and let it warm me. I want to wear a long sundress, and let my hair blow in the breeze. I want to feel relaxed and happy and carefree. I want to laugh really hard, all day. I want to be mischievous and spontaneous. I want my brow to be unfurrowed and I want a smile to be my default expression.
I want to turn away from the driving rain that hit last year, look at the horizon and meditate myself into happy oblivion. But even though I’m not facing it head on anymore, I can hear the rain falling, whispering sadly about everything that’s gone, trying to pull me away from everything that’s still here…everything I’m trying so hard to focus on.
Every drop that comes down is like a gentle, cold tap on the shoulder. A reminder. Tap. Tap tap. And though I’m trying (there’s that exhausting word again) to be quiet and still and warm, soon I’m drenched again and shivering.
Maybe the sadness flood is also the fuel for my bitch fire. I’ve turned away and it’s still all up on me. Is fighting to get away from whatever makes us sad unnatural? Should we just live in the sadness, and feel whatever it wants us to feel until one day we realize that without even trying we don’t feel that way anymore?
I obviously have no answers, people. I mean, I started this post off by asking you for help. I guess the one bad thing about designating a blog as therapy is that your therapist is perpetually silent. That and the whole admitting-to-everyone-who-reads-it that-I’m-a-huge-bitch thing.
Then again, most of you who read this probably know me and know what I’m capable of already.
Oddly comforting, really. Because that means there are a handful of therapists reading who will have a dry shirt ready for me when the rain hits. I also know a couple of shrinks who would gladly offer a dry Chardonnay instead (which more often than not, I’ll take over a t-shirt, thank you very much).
Even more reassuring is that in less than one week, I’ll be in actual Chicago. With my girl, Chicago. It’s the best therapy one half-wet, half-dry girl could ask for – like a new shirt and a cold drink all wrapped up in a warm, fuzzy, Midwestern bow.
In summary: You are my therapy and Chicago is my kryptonite, except she's good for me (and also she's not green).
I suppose that makes me SuperBitch, which means you’re off the hook no matter who you’ve snapped at this week.