Gibson likes to pick camellias and de-petal them, especially from the vases. He litters the dining room with camellia petals. He has a broom but he doesn't use it.
You know what I hate? When I'm sweeping and someone tries to help by holding the dustpan for me. Honeychile, I have swept up approximately enough dirt and dust in my lifetime to fill the Super Dome. Is there a Super Dome? Whatever. But I cannot sweep the dirt and dust into a dustpan that someone else holds. The dustpan portion of the sweeping is mine to do.
Don't fucking help me.
I am angry still today. I don't even know why. Angry at myself, I suppose because I can't get out of this funk/fear. Angry because I am screwing around with the life of my husband in that I am not being the wife he deserves. He comes home after a long, long, LONG day of work and driving and here I am. Angry. Depressed. Sad.
He doesn't deserve that.
I am screwing around with my own life. Here's where I DID get emotional yesterday- when I told Dr. Hypnotist that I have a most wonderful life and am blessed with a most wonderful family and that I simply and merely want to be able to enjoy it.
Say those words and mean them and you might find yourself crying a little bit.
I hate showing my guts to strangers like him. I hate letting my eyes go shiny with tears in front of dentists/doctors/nurses/lab people/and-now-hypnotists. They don't know what to do with that stuff. I don't even know what to do with that stuff and it's mine.
One can be a cover for the other. You can feel angry but really be sad. You can feel sad but really be angry. Can you be both at the same time?
Maybe it's all about turning sixty this year. Sixty is white-hair-swollen-joints-swollen-ankles-wrinkles-sensible-shoes-face-it-baby-it's-all-downhill-from-here-let's-go-eat-dinner-it's-five-thirty.
Maybe not but you know what? We internalize that shit. We may not even realize it until it comes upon us and then there we are.
Walk. Have to do it. Hey! I could look like this:
Anger and sadness. The sky clears and then it comes down rain again. The blackbird gives a rusty rising note. Two eggs already this morning, warm in my palm as I carry them to the house through the misting rain.