I’m that fan of myself, the one with an absurdly large number one finger on my hand, but just as quickly, I will back myself into a corner with the snarling, foaming mouth of a pit bull.
That’s because “Sometimes you’re the windshield. Sometimes you’re the bug.”
For part of today, I felt like a big, red, lifeless splat that makes you say, “Where’s the nearest car wash?”
Thankfully it only took two slices of homemade pepperoni pizza and a back porch chat with Dave to lick my wounds clean and re-tighten the bolts of my head straight.
A helpless session and a helpless tantrum with Evelyn took me to an inner state I rarely am in, but once there, everything was my fault. Thoughts like, Why would anyone see you as a therapist, and You’re a shitty person aren’t too uncommon there.
My expectations are a bar too high in those moments, so it’s like I repeatedly jump, knowing I can’t reach but still trying to get there anyway—a catch-22.
I’m writing in the dark on the couch, and my mind’s remembering a few minutes ago when the freezer light showed a shadowy figure that said, “You don’t see me.”
But I did. Was it an ice cream bar, the chocolate coating with the vanilla ice cream that man of shadows snagged? It must have been.
That could be, should be me. And you know what that means, I better be getting.
As usual, I appreciate your spending a lil’ time with me. Now excuse me, I have an ice cream bar to get.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 