You’ve walked in on me mid-conversation with myself. If you don’t mind, take a seat—I’ll be right with you.
Why is it that earlier, when I spoke from experience—with passion and strength—shame slipped in like an unwanted wasp through the crack of a door?
What do I need to feel secure after a conversation ends?
And now for a deep cleansing breath.
First off, when I get close to her—the girl in my memories—I feel her panicky tremors ripple through me. Accessing her feels disorienting. Kind of like sliding a virtual reality headset on.
Part of me wonders if I’ve been approaching my past the wrong way. I acknowledge its delicate, and sacred nature that’s similar to the Great Pyramids, or a candlelight vigil, but how I’ve been approaching it feels entitled, abrupt, bullyish even.
That kind of relationship with myself doesn’t feel great. What if her shakiness isn’t a flaw at all, but simply a reaction to me barging in? Maybe she, like me, just wants a little space—and respect for it.
Back to our regularly scheduled programming: Perhaps I took Dave’s writing “pool” on the whiteboard to-do list as a mini cry for help. The brown leaf continents have surpassed the filter’s capacity—and Kirby’s, our robotic vacuum’s. (Kirby’s not his real name, by the way. I’ve completely forgotten what it is.)
Because months have gone by without me lifting a finger, I’ve taken on the pool-leaf cleanup. This morning and afternoon, I’ve emptied the robot twice and swiped the 12-foot long-handled net back and forth twice, too. With Kirby working overtime today, I imagine we’ll get it in shape just in time for the next windstorm to blow through.
Much like the pool’s ongoing maintenance—the never-finished work of it—I see mental health similarly. This expectation helps, as it frees me from the eye-rolling “Not again” and “I thought I was over this.”
Also, my job: While stretched out on the back patio couch in the sun like a cat, I’m scanning the penny-colored leaves, trying to come up with grocery ideas. Dave text me from the store—heavy whipping cream and sun-dried tomatoes are all I can think of. I feel this absurd do-or-die pressure about it, as if I’ll do a hot-air balloon-sized combustion, scattering confetti everywhere.
It’s not that serious, Jaclynn.
There’s plenty of food.
Woosah, woosah.
(And for those who don’t get the reference: it’s a calming technique from Bad Boys II, which at one time was one of my absolute favorites.)
Well, I need to do progress notes, drink water, and cool down. This 78-degree November weather is making me sweat.
Later! Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 