I’ve basically held Brian hostage with my mood swings, and I also told California it could get itself a date sleeping with itself, if you catch my drift, because 5 am there doesn’t mean shit to Tampa Bay. However, I should probably stop doing that. We all know how Brian can get a little snappish when he’s feeling a little nappish.
You know, there’s something to be said for confronting our demons. For sorting the feelings that we shoved down into the pit of our stomach because we just couldn’t deal with them at that moment, knowing if we cried then, we were going to cry for a while.
I am one of those people. I will hold that cry in my abdomen for months, but when it’s on, I’m telling you, I will blubber and ugly cry for a hot minute. A bitch could go have a cup of coffee and a damned snickerdoodle in the meantime if that gives you a clue. I just know that there are certain times, I’m not equipped, I’m not physically able to get myself back to the point of stable if I let myself get emotional at that point in time.
Which leads me to this week. Instead of dealing with the betrayal, anger, disgust, and outright hatred I felt for a certain someone, I just shoved it to the back of the closet with sweaters and the jacket I bought in Northern Kentucky one time passing through, and I’ve never been cold enough to wear it since. Unfortunately, when I was digging around for the missing pieces of a skeleton, I let some of that old baggage fall out of the closet door as well.
So in an effort to process things I should have long since packed away, instead I have dredged things from the past that barely stayed still while I shoveled dirt over them the first time around. I’m going to need to make some surgical incisions “here”, “here”, and “here”. Then we can neatly dispose of the entire mess in one biodegradable container.
I hate to revisit old wounds that haven’t healed completely. I will scratch at an itching, healing scab because I am one of those people, I just can’t leave well enough alone. I don’t quite know how to let sleeping dogs lie, I cannot stop when it comes to abusing the deceased steed.
Today, I feel a little more like myself. I feel like I have second-guessed myself for the fourth or fifth time, and still, I wasn’t the one at fault. When I demanded a recount from myself, the tally was the same, plus or minus 1%.
It’s not quite ok yet, but the numbers are looking like I was right: you really were the problem.
You can always give BMan a break and call 1-800-LAWBITCH - I’m standing by the hotline :)