I think I’ve said this here before, or something like it. It’s so difficult to be desperately sad and incredibly happy. When the joy comes, it’s often in an overwhelming tidal wave that I fight back with a mental stick. The sadness is a harsh under tow, lingering.
Also, the neighbor’s fire, combined with remembering how our house was broken into a couple times as a kid, has my anxiety going a bit crazy tonight.
Weird night. There was joy – that’s what matters.
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The neighbor’s house by mine caught fire this evening! Seems like everyone is physically okay, thank God.
But this won’t be an evening anyone in my quiet neighborhood will forget any time soon!
My breakdown was probably the last time our neighborhood saw any flashing lights like this. You know, when I walked into that same neighbor’s backyard uninvited and scared the crap out of them, forcing them to call the cops on me. They had me and my temporary lunacy already, they didn’t deserve this.
I think I’m going to have to get over the humiliation I feel to try to do something nice for them. Now what could possibly say both I’m sorry for trespassing on your property and I’m so sorry about the fire?
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So I went ahead and made an Etsy shop for some of my pieces. This is my first listing! It’s a paper rose made from pages of Ralph Waldo Emerson’s poetry torn from a book of poetry and prose, c. 1917. Check it out! https://www.etsy.com/shop/TheLawyernerd
Visits with my parents are always difficult. I never know how she will be. She was in rare form last night. In a poor boundaries, being nasty, aggressive and passive aggressive, cold shoulder, my house my rules, poison tongue kind of way that only she is capable of.
Since I’ve been talking more with her, she’s gotten more comfortable and is slipping right back into old habits. The highly inappropriate call on Valentine’s Day to tell me what I should be doing to celebrate being single. Last night’s foray into the mother of my youth.
I didn’t let it ruin time with my dad. We were able to have a few private conversations like we started doing after I became an adult. And, despite being in pain from diabetic neuropathy in his legs and feet, he walked me out to my car like he always does.
Despite her, it was a pretty decent visit overall. That’s progress.
A Crumpled Rose
the matter, my dea-rie,
in your pret-ty eyes;
is the lies!
Sheet music and poetry all c. 1930s or earlier.
The one with the words to the left is made from a poem about a rose and its thorn upcycled from a book of American poetry and prose c. 1917.
I’ve got some “mother” themed sheet music coming. I’ve already got lots of ideas for it. Stay tuned!
I feel like I should be it, but I’m not.
I feel like it surrounds me, but my walls are up and I still can’t break through to let it in.
Intellectual capability and emotional intelligence are on vastly different ends of the spectrum. I know what it is supposed to look like, can spout off a hundred synonyms for it, but being it? Not a clue.
Just when I think I have the hang of it. As I begin to believe it isn’t a myth made in the minds of idyllic youth,
I’m back down again. Withdraw, isolate, give in to the depression as it rolls in like fog in the night.
Those who have it live wholeheartedly, says Brené Brown (aka #VulnerabilityTED). To live wholeheartedly is to truly believe you are loved and are worthy of love.
I am neither. I am neither. I am neither.
Except I am loved; this I know. I still don’t have it.
Maybe I’m scared of it. Maybe I need to face the fact that I don’t feel worthy of it. Then I can figure out how to move forward. I’ve been trying to dismiss the idea every time it comes up as a thought. Bad thoughts *swat* dead like a fly. I’ve gotten pretty good at turning them off when I notice them. Or I rationalize, logic, etc. etc. my way around the thought until it’s my bitch and I can stop thinking about it for a while.
But that I’m not worthy of it? I mean, that kind of makes sense. As for how that makes me feel? Not a clue.