Me, Undone

Insanity: Doing the same thing over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again in the expectation of a different result. Doctor told me today I've caught a head case. I'm certifiable. Meds and all. I've taken to chain smoking a pack of marlboro. It's official. In search of working brain. I have to leave you.

It's Christmas and I am home sick. Not deadly sick, or even major sick--just sick enough to avoid the customary pomp and circumstance of Christmas. I suppose this sickness was manifested, sort of like "The Secret." I love the Christmas spirit, but I can not tolerate estranged family members buzzing around over-cooked turkey and stuffing. I don't like random people in my space. I have managed to continue my Christmas traditions. I watched "The Little Drummer Boy" on Christmas eve and exchanged gifts at the stroke of midnight. That's all I require. R is off visiting her family and undoubtedly preparing to bring me home a number of warm treats.  I have time to reflect. Time to think through this crazy year.  Space to produce an artificial cataloguing of time. 1. Work I've moved on from my teaching job. Now I am a special education administrator. More money, less stress. More flexibility, less crap. Quick, what's the most undervalued profess...

i s it ok for me to ask you to rescue me? i’ve never asked this of any one before. An abdication of any semblance of independent thought, need, and desire. here. grab my hand. take me with you. i won’t resist.  sweep me up in you. imbibe me. bones so tired of moving. i am woman. let me lean.   strength will return. but for now. please. come. rescue me--a feminist burning bushes to light the way home. 

I am all geared up for a protest. I am ready to burn down buildings. Turn over cars. Spray paint dirty little words like "sanctimonious," and "fascist, " on white walls. I hear that in London the Brits have taken to the street over tuition hikes. The PEOPLE are bloody screaming, rock-throwing, finger-flipping, flame throwing. I'm certain our revolt is on its way. The thugs are holding us hostage. Penalizing the workers. Misappropriating public funds. It's going down! I've filled my bucket with hot water, torn bricks out of the wall, and duck-taped phone books to my chest. I am waiting...I am waiting...pacing back and forth, peering out the window. Somebody give me the signal. Show me the sign.

“Being colored is a metaphysical dilemma I haven’t conquered yet.” --For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow is Enuf  But I have a plan...

I NEED AN INTERVENTION!! They, meaning the savvy, conniving, retailers of America, lured me in to the stores with lights, shiny stars, cheap tricks and promises of holiday bliss. Oh...blessed black friday. I vowed to never go back to sterile arms again, but alas, I failed.  I am terribly human.  "Hello, my name is $%$*&$ and I am binge shopper."  There, I said it. I am the American consumer.  The ultimate economy stimulator.  In my closet I have two unworn bras from Victorias Secret, one pair of fresh, shiny boots from Nine West,  and drawer of sweaters with H&M tags still hanging on them. Please, someone, intervention me! Email the lovable Suze Orman so she can deny me the new Macbook I am typing on, with a racially tinged "Girlfriend." Call Sandy or the bald guy from A&E;  trick me in to coming to a personal interview;  have all my estranged family and friends gather around and read notes on napkins about how my bin...

I started my first and only gratitude journal three years ago. A week after I began listing my gratitudes, my mother died. I haven't allowed myself to be grateful for anything since then. There is no overwhelming joy. I was the saddest to see it go. I take no comfort in stability. No solace in consistency. Everything must change. This I know. Perhaps my response is not logical, but I. Am. So. Afraid. Three years later, there are glimpses of healing. This Thanksgiving I am grateful for teeth, a nose, ears and feet. God wouldn't take those away from me. I think. My mind randomly drifts the indigenous peoples--so grateful for the little trinkets and stones the pilgrims provided. Little did they know that the pilgrims also carried small pox in their sleeping bags.