Release from what, silly girl, there is nothing wrong.
I want the things I say to make a difference. I dread the temptation of coming here and getting all fluffy on you just to make an appearance, unless of course, it’s exceptionally entertaining. Or even in a regular way entertaining – who says a couple of mild chuckles woudn’t make a difference? I’m not tongue-tied because I have nothing to say – I have too much to say. But it’s always I, I, I, and once in a while, even “I” have shame. How much “look at me, I’m so interesting, so eloquent,” can I get away with before I’m sick of myself or you’re sick of me?
I’m a little sick of myself at the moment.
Naturally, this will pass and I’ll think I’m hilarious and charming all over again, but for now, I’m rolling my eyes at myself. For now, I’m thinking about the people who volunteer at soup kitchens every week, and hug people who wear flea-infested blankets. Hugging is fine; fleas are not. But I’m thinking, maybe I should go and hang out at a shelter and clip the toenails of an unwashed old man who can’t do it for himself. Maybe I should sleep in the shelter, just for one night, with one of those swarming blankets.
Everybody needs a slap of humility.
I sit here for an entire evening, whining to myself about bird mites and unrequited love, when I have a lovely life, a lovely home and lovely friends. I’m an asshole. I debilitate myself – I mean, I physically become incapable of mobility – with my obsessive thoughts about insignificant bullshit such as how my agent didn’t get back to me, or how I’m too lazy to get my car washed (not wash it myself, mind you, but bring it in!), and how the landlord has ignored my requests to re-grout the bathroom tiles.
I’m a first-class asshole.
Yet, when the wave of debilitation hits, I sink. There is not a single life preserver that can pull me out of the dark water. Not friends. Not pills. Certainly not myself.
I sit there – no, I lie there – analyzing all of this with perfect lucidity, telling myself how absurd I am, and how really, there is nothing wrong. I could just simply get up.
But I don’t.
Instead, a couple of tears slide down my face. I don’t know if they’re tears of sorrow, frustration or just momentary release. Release from what, silly girl, there is nothing wrong. So you think you’re in love and your love might not be returned in the same way. So you think you might have a mystery insect problem. You have three fresh bug bites on you. That makes five clusters in six weeks. And all of a sudden, you decide you have bed bugs? Even so, does it really mean the world is a horrible, unforgiving place? You’ll have to “boil” some sheets and call an exterminator. Poor you.
For the record, I do not have bed bugs. Mainly because I refuse to accept that I could. If I do have them, it means I’ve brought them back from the cabin in the mountains where I flew in a private plane to frolic on the snowy slopes. Poor, poor me.
A 24-karat asshole.
But no. I’m going with bird mites and I expect all the spiders I’ve provided with lodging to rally on my behalf. End of (that) story.
Unrequited love? Get the fuck over it. Think of all the people you’ve spoken to lately, who say they don’t “know” if they’ve ever been in love. Whaaa? When one’s in love, one knows it, and for someone like me who has no trouble falling in love, it’s unfathomable that there are people walking around the world who don’t know the feeling. So I’ll never be one to wish I didn’t feel this way. Even if it’s unrequited.
“You’re so honest, H., you’re so open,” people tell me. Yes, I am. It’s by far, my best quality. It liberates me from myself and bonds me to others.
If you’re writing a screenplay, they tell you that at the end, your protagonist is either better off, worse off, or dismally the same after a prolonged journey. The third option is the least favorable.
Fortunately, this is only a blog post, because at its end, the protagonist is dismally the same. She will not be going to a homeless shelter to re-learn humility; she will ignore the non-itchy bug bites; she will love the guy who may or may not love her back; and she’ll still lie in bed when irrational bouts of depression wash over.
But she’ll get around to bringing her dusty car to the car-wash. When you think your black car is stolen because you don’t recognize the beige one in its place, it’s time.
And she’ll keep reminding herself that nothing is wrong, so that maybe she catches herself next time, before dunking under the murky water.
- It might be bed bugs.
- But no.
- It might not be unrequited.
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