Elvis is crowing. I hate him right now. I hate him because even though he is a good rooster in some ways, he attacks Shalayla, jumping on her and doing his cruel, quick rooster fuck and she is scared to death of him and now life, too.
It is the most beautiful day. I woke up crying from a dream and I can't seem to quit. It's October and just as surely as the trees will lose their leaves, I will lose my shit.
It happens every year. I hate it every year.
The feelings of powerlessness and worthlessness come over me and there you have it. I want to be done. I want to crawl into bed and let it be done. I am perfectly content to watch the same episode of "Flipping Out" over and over again. The idea of planting a row of lettuce is more than I can bear. Maggie May wrote about self-pity today.
She hates self-pity.
I hope she doesn't read this.
I literally wring my hands. It is cold. Perhaps I am just trying to warm them. I don't know. The left one is going numb again all night and wakes me up. It did this for years. It is doing it again. I am falling apart. If I am in this much pain and discomfort now and I live another ten years or so, how will it be then? I can't fall apart. I have to keep up with that boy. And I know I'm strong. I can lift him up a thousand times a day to sit on my lap, to walk with me across the yard, to take him to the bed to change him, to hold him up to see if there are eggs in the nest.
I can. I do.
I have to.
I have always had a stubborn pride about being tough.
I don't feel tough. I feel as if I am made of steel wires that are fraying, sharp edges poking out everywhere, the tensile strength of the whole made weak.
How can it be that one day I am riding atop a bubble of this existence, this life, everything so sharp and clear and pure and good and the next, I am reaching up to touch bottom, as a woman I knew used to say? Don't tell me I'm bipolar. I don't go out and buy things. I don't stay up for days at a time. I am merely appropriately in love with the life I have on my really good days. Content.
Well, with age comes knowledge if not wisdom or peace. And even if this day I feel as if there is a complete falling-down, falling-apart, failing-at-it-all, I know that even by this afternoon, I may feel differently. Strong again, perhaps even tough. I will have shaken the dreams, I will have taken the walk, I will have folded the clothes, I will have cuddled the boy, made the bed, done the grocery shopping.
In short, pushed aside the beads on the abacus one more time to add up the sum of the day of the life.
I may not be able to grab onto the ride with both hands today and lift my face to the sky to laugh at the speed and the rush and the wind but but dammit, I can hold on until that happens, which for me means to maintain the order of the actions which will keep me steady until it does.
Elvis crows, Shalayla cowers, I need to go let them out of the coop. I don't hate Elvis. He is just a rooster and Shalayla is his favorite hen.
I don't hate my life. I don't even hate myself.
I just hate these feelings. And they will pass.