Taking my lumps

Tonight I went to see a play with friends, and quite inadvertently ended up spending two hours looking at the girl who moved in with Chris and Ant the day after I moved out.

She was in the play in a minor part, and the weight on my chest is pain I couldn't bear then. Now it's leftovers: shit I don't want to eat again, but need to. She wasn't what I expected, but who could be? She also wasn't the reason my little family got torn apart, but she was the manifestation of it.

The play was hilarious, and it was good to hang out with friends, and I know you'll be disappointed to hear me take this perspective on it, but to hell with your timeline- I think this was exactly what this night was for. And I got a couple hours with friends afterwards to come down from this ridiculous intrusion. I could have chosen to go straight home and stew, but went for wings instead, and talked about art.

The earnest chorus member hovered between a derided and forgettable role in my brain, and settled into Patty's "one more girl on the stage." She's immaterial to me, but the foot on my chest is not. That is real and exhausting and painful, and it has to be felt to be let go of. AA and John Callahan say to sit still and hurt, and I don't see any other choice.

"I am done with my graceless heart
so tonight I'm gonna cut it out and then restart."

It brought me right back to the awful hurt of it- not the anxious churning in my stomach from when the tower was breaking apart- just the punch of acknowledgment to the breastbone that it was already rubble. It's amazing how physically that still hurts, long after I didn't want him back.

But that's why I'm here at my table at 2am, writing it out. Because even after this short unloading, that weight is lifted off my heart a bit, shared by my mind and my gut, and I can straighten out again. Now I feel tired like I should this late.

I'm not even mad at Chris, because every time I try to phrase that, it sounds petty and useless. I'm not mad at me, because it was unavoidable to love and inevitable to stop. It hurts to stop.

Bring your own bag

Last night I dreamt about walking Riley past the boundary of my apartment complex and into another neighborhood. It’s not horribly difficult to put that into context, considering that I had just spewed frustration to Tracy about these bastards yanking my rent up yet again.

So Riley and I are just beginning to wander among these darker, strange new buildings and we come across a school. It feels like Catoctin, but it’s probably like any elementary school. We’re walking up to the side, and some woman is pooping in a trash bag. I courteously look away to give her some privacy, like I do with Riley, and when she’s done, I look in the bag. It’s full of donated clothes for a thrift store, only with a turd on top now, so I pull the obligatory poop bag from my back pocket (Poop bags in my back pocket are so ubiquitous that they show up in my dreams.), and some other woman comes out of the school and gives me that teacher/mom/really good friend look that says, “What on earth are you doing?” I do the “Huh? But… Well,” and then I understand that:

1)      I see picking up my dog’s poop as my civic doody, but I am seriously overstepping my obligations.

2)      Nobody is going to want anything else in this bag now.

3)      I had really good autopilot intentions, but I have missed the bigger, more important point.

My friends just bought a house, and I went over there Sunday to help them paint. I tested my blood sugar and went to give myself a shot, and another painting volunteer became audibly upset. “Oh my god… I can’t handle it. You’re actually going to do that. I can’t look.”

I was surprised. I just watched this girl play full tackle football the night before. She’s an offensive guard. That is way more painful and impressive to watch than what I’m doing. I continued on with my shot and said as much to her. My friend Cristine immediately pointed out that this girl has about five piercings in her face. How can she have all those and be grossed out by an insulin syringe?

How did I miss that?

Sometimes, when things like this happen, I think sadly to myself: I’ll never be a detective.