As a writer, I like getting on my blog here at the big old PC and squawking away about people I love and things I do that are quite wonderful things to do. I like to make good remarks about others, but I don't really like to talk about myself. Maybe I'm wrong about that. Maybe I do like to talk about myself, but only when terrific stuff is going on in my life. If I take a wrong turn and go off a cliff, though, I'm sort of at odds about what to say.
What do I say about having my world collapse this past week? My guy friend and I are no longer BFFs; my job was pulled out from underneath me; I am financially broken and cooking rice for dinner. I went through the motions of being terminated by being as pleasant as possible, although I was provoked, and it seemed as if the office manager was trying to get me to lose my temper. I didn't , though. Again, my thought was, "what to say, what to say?"
I guess it's better to question myself more often than I have in recent times. Since my brother passed away in February, I have been struggling with the story he told me of fighting with Satan. I don't believe in Satan. I don't believe there's a guy in a red suit out there ready to off me with his pitchfork. Still, I wanted Marshall to share what he was so desperate to share with me as he lay dying in a hospital bed in Boone (ya can't get there from here) North Carolina.
He told me the devil was much more than a person; it was a powerful force in the room with him, and he had fought valiantly but was still quite frightened by that battle. Let me say here that Marshall was never afraid of anything, I cannot ever recall hearing him say such things. Here was my brother 55, in a hospital bed, his hands shriveled and so frail he could not hold a tiny paper cup. Here was my brother who climbed cherry trees with me and played kickball and cracked his helmet playing little league football (he was quite proud of that) -- here was my once-gorgeous sibling, barely recognizable, begging for one more beer, one more joint before he left this Life. He was begging to tell me this story, though, even more than he wanted the beer and reefer. I'm glad I let him talk about it, but sheesh. My life has been chaotic ever since. I started having awful thoughts about my own health and even though I am an optimistic, cheerful kinda gal, I could not dissuade myself from thinking bad things, i.e., "I'm going to die. Now. I'm going to die." That is what I was thinking, and I had to see my doctor about it because I was starting to have panic attacks from this awful voice inside my head, arguing with my good self. I've seen cartoons with those sorts of arguing 'selves' and I've watched the story of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and other literary characters as they play out their 'inner demons.' I never thought I had inner demons, not until now. The Devil may not be real, but evil is real, and darkness is real, and people with shitty thoughts are real. Still, I cannot give it or them power by dwelling on them. I must forge forward and keep my smile on.
Today I woke up tearful, and now it is almost 10am and I am still crying. I'm a big girl. I do cry. I don't like to cry, but golly gosh gumdrops, sometimes my eyes water for no reason, or for multiple reasons that I cannot put my arms around or embrace in any way. Tears are okay, but in moderation. Ya know?
So as I look at the week to come, I know I have to file an unemployment claim. Today I hope to make it to the proper office. Yesterday I took bad advice from a trolley driver and ended up on a three hour tour of the Hamburg side of Lexington. Hamburg is a shopping mecca that was erected on the Hamburg Farm land, a farm most famous for breeding Alysheba, who won the Kentucky Derby once. I can't remember when...it's not important. What is important is that this sacred land once used to pasture in-foal mares and stallions is now occupied by concrete and steel buildings and lots of shoppers on their way to spend tons of money on items they probably do not need, but want.
Hmm. "Needs" versus "Wants." That's the battle I'd rather fight with myself. Now that I've been thrown back into poverty, I have to consider every purchase, every step, every bite of food. Do I need it or do I want it and is it worth purchasing? As for drinking, thank goodness the Guy friend left me a bottle of scotch. I still love that guy. Johnny Walker, that is. Not the Guy. We never were meant to be in love, but were instead musical soul mates. We always will be, I think, and singing is the best way to communicate feelings, sometimes the only way. My choir is my supporting breath, though, and will bolster me as the weeks progress in my search for gainful employment. My writing is my tool for living, so I shall be writing more and crying less, I hope. My ukulele continues to amaze me with its ability to be such a big and mighty force, even though it's the tiniest of the guitar family.
So what to say? I say, evil and devil and crappy people who judge others, go away, you are not welcome here. I say, concentrate on what is good and the rest will take care of itself. It is in times like this that my faith is tested. God is holding me up, because lambchops, my legs are weak and my spirit has been broken. It is healing, but wowzah, it's taking its sweet time getting me back to being whole again.
Please pray for me if you think about it, and pray for