Archive for November, 2010

I’m single, supposedly. Single by American adult behavioral interaction codes, but I have two small people by my side most of the time. This is scary for a plethora of reasons, yes plethora. First, I am dangerous. Second, I am unpredictable, inconsistent and a riot of too much honest—aka dangerous.

Some folks are squeamish about several things on my list, or on their own list. Squeamish about vomit, or clammy hands, or poop and sweat—I am squeamish about affection, about showing and admitting to love. Yep, I’m the anti-mom. Ok fine, maybe just the anti-stereotype-mom. I’m not all sweet and nurtury with a bottomless well of patience and compassion. {On a side note, I’m also not, as the stereotype can go, asexual. I’m actually fairly turned on a good bit of the time, but am way too “good” at ignoring that need}.

I’m not trying to self-deprecate {so sonically close to defecate}. The truth just sounds shitty sometimes. The truth is, despite all that I’ve survived [a compulsive list for another day] the real damage has hit where it counts: my ability to love. It is unjustly tricky to love unconditionally and nurture and kiss and hug and say I love you a ton when you kinda-sorta emotionally starve yourself. When you are ashamed of your own needs or are surprised even to find one lurking. I didn’t know, for way too long, and am still getting used to admitting, that I actually need to be loved. {Not to mention that I am angry and scared and lonely from this emotional anorexia.} And as much as I was raised in an America that tried it’s darnedest to convince me of a knight coming along to be my teat of eternal happy I somehow, painstakingly, deduced that oh, shit, only I can meet that need. I have to feel loved by me.

My being single is due to this. Loving myself is kind of a bitch. Not because I’m too cranky or ornery but it’s a shit ton of work and I’m just tired. I just want to sleep and eat chocolate and pretend I am alive through a screen. Wait—

I am not single. And I do just sleep and eat chocolate and pretend I am alive through a screen—when I’m not packing lunches or doing dishes or spelling or adding and subtracting. When I’m not reading chapter books till my throat is sore, or taking them swimming, or yelling at stupid life guards [long story for another compulsive day], or planning birthday parties, or making sure they’ve washed—everywhere. When I’m not refereeing, or lecturing about flexibility and gratitude and appreciation, when I’m not role-modeling positivity, hell, I mean “positivity.” When I’m not doing any of these things or a gazillion other.

Then I am sleeping. I am sleeping so I can try again another day. Maybe this day I will remember to stretch when I wake, and share this with them. Maybe I will laugh today, instead of spit fire over spilled milk. Or maybe today is the day I falter and say something outright mean and watch them shrink but this time, this day, I forgive myself for it.

What if I can choose to forgive myself, to go on and think I’m ok even though I fucked up. If I can choose to love myself after fucking up then every other day should be cake, no? I have found after all of this sleep and repeat that this seemingly minute yet actually daunting undertaking—to forgive my mistakes—is an extremely good place to begin.

No, it’s not cake but this is my beginning. This is what my slack belly gets rounder on. Soon I will be stuffed and by then to say I am single will sound stupid. On that near-future day I will say I am complete.

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