You know, there are days when a full-time working, dieting, already neurotic writer wannabe mom can feel so completely defeated by it all (and in particular by her seven year old) that she starts to pine for the elegant, if unacceptable, coping mechanism from her teenage years.
I mean, I know it's been a hard afternoon when I'm wondering why it was that I promised God and my best friends when I was 18 that I wouldn't cut myself again. What was I thinking? Obviously, I wasn't figuring that life could get this hard. Chunk of coal into diamond. Heart attack waiting to happen. I ignore the oh-so-tempting idea of release, and transference, and external-manifestation-of-internal pain, that a small cut might bring. It's not like I ever did it a lot back then, and it sure ain't gonna happen again now.
A good sit-down meal with the kids, one bottle of hard apple cider, and a try at "Oh What a Beautiful Morning" on the fiddle, and I now can see that there's nothing all that wrong, really. Blame the struggle on the full moon. Blame it on my less-than-5-hours-a-night sleep habit. Or my daughter not having enough lunch before gymnastics. Blame it on whatever, but don't blame hormones (because I always refuse to do that, and besides, it wouldn't apply right now anyway...).
A good friend recently suggested that although I no longer cut myself, since I do still have the impulse rise up from time to time (I liken it to an addiction, an alcoholic still occasionally craving a drink), it might be important to figure out what it is that gets me to that feeling, so I can address that. Ok. Good point. (Because, you know, I'm not self-reflective enough.)
Me, me. It's all about me. Unless it's about you and you're being about me.
Is that the song that the universe sings, from mitochondria to red giant? Or is the universe singing "You. All. Us. One." ?
Damn. That was a good bottle of cider.
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