Reading a kids’ book to Evelyn led me to search for a photo of these round, car-sized bales of hay I took a picture of in Montana. Unfortunately, I don’t have them and will need to see if my friend Kristen does, but that’s not the point. The point is I don’t like myself. Scanning the images of me at my wedding, of me dressed up for work, of me with friends, I think, what a mess.
I feel bad for people and guilty for taking up space in their lives when they can do better. I’m not that great. I try to come across like I am, but I’m not. I hear what I say, know how I’ve acted, and I’m not that great.
Earlier, in talking to my sister-in-law, I told her about negotiating the price for the house and described Dave as “a dog with a tail between his legs” while sitting beside him. Immediately, I felt guilty, knowing how he must have felt hearing me speak like that about him. But I sat there, like a rock, unmoving, wanting to say something to him and also wanting to bury what had just happened.
When he said, “I don’t like that you referred to me as a dog with a tail between his legs” I knew I couldn’t hide and apologize. But why didn’t I step up and say something first?
I just feel so cynical and pessimistic. I don’t even want to say what I’m about to say, but I will. I saw beautiful family photos of an old friend. The colorization, the backdrop, their clothes, how fun and happy everyone was—I felt drawn to them. I was pleased. They were gorgeous. But also, I felt cynical, even depressed by them. I don’t know why.
I have this sense that I can’t help but mess up. Which is true. But something about the inescapable and forever repeating nature of it is daunting.
The main character in “Beef” hit a chord with a major part of my identity. She said, “I hate pretending I don’t hate things.” And “When nowhere feels like home, you just retreat into yourself.” And “Do you think it’s possible to love someone unconditionally? There must be some point where we all fall outside the reach of love, right? The mistake is so big, and the love must stop.”
I’m scared of that. I worry that I won’t catch myself doing harmful things or worse, that I won’t care. And that I’m sabotaging myself and my relationships without a clue of the damage until they topple over like a house of cards.
I am a house of toothpicks.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 