Just Keep Going.
Picture me last night. 11 p.m. I’m in my pajamas, kneeling piously by my bedside, my hands steepled in front of my face, eyes shut tight, brow furrowed in concentration. “Dear Mr. Jesus. It’s about tomorrow. I am seriously PMS-ing. Like, really bad. I’m at the end of my hormonal rope. Tomorrow, if my day is perfectly balanced and everything goes right, I will not go off the deep end. I don’t want to go off the deep end, Jesus. Help me.” Now picture Jesus laughing His Ass off, because he knows that the script is already written, and he’s read the fucking ridiculous scenes. Also he knows I don’t actually pray, so he’s like, “screw you, you’re making this up for your blog.”
Now picture me asleep. Now, go here to read the completely jacked-up dream I had last night, that lay the foundation for my jacked-up day.
OK, you’ve read the dream. Now picture Willie Nelson. “Lonely nights I cannot sleep, I just lie awake and weep…” That’s the alarm that wakes me up from aforementioned jacked-up dream.
I go about my day, the real one, but like I’m still sort of in the jacked-up dream. Everything’s off balance. I manage to get myself up, dressed and fed. I manage to get Ry up, dressed and fed. I have to force myself to interact with her, to play our car-ride game. This morning it’s the one called “the Crazy Mix-Up” and I have to remember all the characters: Viola, Melissa, Rosita, Green, Phoebe, the Puffball, Oatmeal and Blue Velvet the magic horses, Ginger the wild unicorn and Shadowfire the elderly one-eyed pegasus. I manage all that without getting into an accident. I get her to school five minutes late. I get to work ten minutes late and go straight into a session without stopping to pee or breathe. If I could had a quiet session, with someone who soaks up the massage, I could maybe right my day, balance myself out; it happens that way a lot. It’s like meditation. But no. It’s the one client whose religious, political and social perspective is most utterly opposite my own, and she’s loud, and she argues with me the entire hour, despite the fact that I do not say anything, somehow she still argues. When I do quietly contribute, it’s just fuel for her ceaseless, offensive ranting. At the end of the hour I’m depleted. I’ve gone flat as month-old Moxie.
I do the best I can for the rest of my workday. I pull it together for my clients. I love them. I love Argue Woman too, for the record. On another day, after a dreamless sleep, when I don’t have PMS and rotator cuff pain and broken-arm weakness, I can let her words roll away and still sink my mind into my work, and come out of the hour feeling good. It’s just that it’s today.
I pick up Rocky at school. We go home. Her friend comes over for dinner. Then a bunch of things hit me at once. I’m exhausted. I’m in pain, probably because of the exhaustion (my biomechanics go to shit when I’m tired). I have a virtual (online) run-in with someone of very little consequence who still triggers the crap out of me. It seems that she, gone from my little world, is back in my world, and back in a very big way. I am, despite my best efforts to calm my brain, panicking. It is at this point that I have to stop myself from doing very impulsive things, like writing crazy paranoid emails. I write an email, and I (thank you, Mr. Jesus) do NOT send it. You have to remember, I have recently discovered that I have ADD. I am seriously impulsive. This “controlling your impulses” is a very new skill that I’m still mastering. For the rest of the day, I struggle mightily to control the impulse to post “OMG FUCK THIS SHIT” on my Facebook page for all my friends, coworkers, relatives, and young nieces and nephews to see.
Then, the coup de grace. I am informed that despite the fact that I actually did it, the state didn’t record the license renewal process I slogged through in December. My massage license expires on 3/26/13. Do you recognize that date? Yes, as a matter of fact. That is today. Right now. Today is the very last day that I can legally practice my trade, my moneymaking skill, here in the state of Kentucky, or anywhere in the grand ole’ U S of A. At this point I am cooking dinner for two hungry children, feeding my dogs, calling the Kentucky State Board of Licensure for Massage Therapy and Private Investigators, writing a screaming text to Mo, leaving a desperate voicemail for Mom, and hyperventilating all at the same time. Doomed, and multitasking.
Jesus, I’ve gone off the deep end.
And just as I begin to crumple, broken, to the ground, a deep, long moan of utter despair issuing from my slack-jawed, drooling mouth, about to give in to the completeness of my suffering, everything gets better.
That woman of little consequence who triggers the crap out of me is not, after all, back in my world. That was some weird mistake. Melissa says, “Baby, look in your files for your renewal receipt.” Oh. Right. I have evidence. My boss says, You know how there’s only one person in charge of license renewal for every single massage therapist and private investigator in the entire state of Kentucky? If the State moved any slower with the license processing it’d be going backward. Don’t worry about it.
And that’s that.
The children are fed. The friend goes home. Mom returns my call. At 7:30, Mo comes home and hugs me. I read the story of John Muir and his dog to Rocky. At the end of the book, when Muir and his dog Stickeen, who looks exactly like Sunny, are separated forever – that’s when I finally lose it.
“Until the canoe passed from sight *SOB* … Stickeen leaned out of … of the boat, calling to … *SOB, SOB* to the man *SOB* who had become both his hero and … and his *SOB SOB SOB SOB* and his friend -”
Rocky, used to me, says calmly, “Mama, just keep going.”
And so I do.