Back on the Brunt

I like to remind myself that calamity is my jammity. It makes it all seem challenging and jaunty that way. I have bootstraps on my bootstraps and it’s always the verge of the rapids. Or something. All that to indirectly say that I’m in a very difficult spot of life and managing, somehow.

Although I have never appreciated being pitied, it’s been a big part of my life. This happens when you are raised by a drunken grizzly bear. People feel very sorry for you and give you an extra pat on the head or chuck on the chin.

At some point in mid-adulthood, it occurred to me that I only cried when I was feeling sorry for myself, so I quit. I didn’t cry or feel sorry for myself more than once every three years. It horrifying to remember it now. I got so good at submerging my emotions, they didn’t take up any space at all, like some kind of weird math problem that explains molecular vibrating whatever.

Right now, dozens of my neighbors are discussing the impossible problem of a neighborhood hoarder. I feel sorry for him on account of the hoarding problem as much as the neighborhood attention. At the very same time, I am grateful to note that even if my problems are very bad, they are not visible from google earth.

So, yeah, right now I have to wrestle with a very angry grizzly bear about once a week. The bear does not want my help and I don’t really want to help, but it is the right thing to do. Also, I am still sober and have been for six months now. My tooth broke and I didn’t even think of drinking over it, which is nice, but one phone call can send me into a tizzy of tipsy thoughts, which is not so nice.

I’m lucky, just the same. I have a lot of lovely people checking in and standing by and this ridiculous dog lives for the snippets of time I can spend with him and let him sit on me.

At the worst of it, I think it would really be a shame if this kills me. Some feelings are so big and horrible that they really do seem deadly. But you know what? These big, grizzly feelings don’t have my permission to kill me.

At least it’s not ground hog day.

Fuck.

Just kidding.

Love,
yermom

Need more blather that is better than this? Try a book!