Written on Thursday, January 13, 2011 during my two day break from the kids.
I’m sitting on the floor of a four star hotel (paid for with Amex points)
I can’t seem to stop.
This is not how I wanted this break to go.
I wanted it to be about rejuvenation and rest and self-love.
Instead it feels, right now, like it’s about not enoughness and loss and fucking grief.
It feels like it's about transition and learning.
It feels like there will be no peace from the hole, the void, the confusion that has placed me on the floor of this four star hotel.
I got this email from a client, someone who should have never been a client.
She is upset with how I am working with her. I take her criticism and turn it global. I smear it all over my body.
what is wrong,
instead of just my wrong action.
After two glasses of wine,
I send a bit cocky email to a guy who I like.
This afternoon, I reread it and am amazed how there is no gentleness or softness, something I like to be, I need to be, I like to be with him.
I layer that mistake on top of the one I made with my client.
I become all things bad.
And then I open up my web browser
And I see
a photo of
Christina Green’s brother (Tuscon shootings)
wiping tears away.
I stand up, sobbing.
I pace the floor.
I walk over to the window, back to the hotel door.
Then without knowing that I am doing it,
I am on my knees on the floor,
hands covering my face, forehead leaning of the floor.
I laugh for a moment, I have spent a lot of time on floors this past one year and 8 months!
And I think:
How is it I’m grieving again?
How is it that the sobs can come from a place so deep I forget it exists?
I don’t’ want this life.
This is just too hard
The kids, the dating
I want it all to be easy
Because after what I have been through,
I think I deserve easy.
I want easy.
I desire easy.
what this is!
One sob out, a slower breath in and I remember,
it’s not them.
It’s not what they do or say or what I write or the photo I saw that leave me on the floor.
It’s that I have forgotten
I am still a well-functioning
The emotions from Art’s death are just a short dig, a disappointed client, a stupid email, a photograph away.
When will I stop being so sensitive?
Maybe that’s the
question. Maybe the question is:
makes me real.