Self-Amusement

I'd like to dedicate this one to Erin. So, Erin, you won the jackpot today. :)

I was just laughing at myself. Well, maybe more like an inside kind of laugh, not a ha-ha kind, but still, it was a self-realizing kind of moment. I've got this little thing called PMS, and it's always taking me to new heights. Or maybe lows. Something new, anyway.

So I'm standing outside myself, and I'm laughing on the inside, but I'm also lamenting my womanhood. I'm laughing because I've spent the last couple days--and a lot of today--obsessing over why my boobs hurt enormously. And, speaking of enormous, I swear they're bigger. I'm running down reasons why my girls are aching and I'm thinking the worst. Some sort of magical pregnancy, maybe? It can't be PMS, I'm thinking. It's too soon. And I don't have any other symptoms--like weeping over cheesy TV shows or because the cats didn't want to eat the food I gave them.

Then, while I'm still on the inside, I have an emotional breakdown. And afterward, I step outside and give myself a once-over... and I nod. "Yep," I think. "PMS for sure."

Even the way it started was tell-tale. I was sitting here on my bed, looking at the phone. I wanted to call him. I really wanted to call him. But no. I wasn't going to allow myself to do it. Then the phone rings, and it plays his song, and a big smile creeps onto my face.

I've been missing him. All day. I wished he'd invite me, because I'd go. Mostly, I wished he were an impulsive kind of guy who would just show up at my door--just know that I needed him and show up at my door. Why aren't lovers in the same sync in real life as they are in movies? If this were a movie, he'd have been here hours ago with flowers in his hand, and I'd be smiling at him instead of at myself from the outside.

So after we'd talked awhile, I decided it would be worth the drive to be able to sit there with him, and I announced my decision. Then he said I should stay home.

First, surprise. Second, anger. Third, tears.

I'll skip the details. Sometimes I wish he were a little less sensible, but I guess it's a good thing.

Here's a surprise: he said he understood. Incredulously, I asked, through tears, "What do you understand?" Read: "You have no idea, buddy." He said he understood I was having an emotional night. Apologized for hurting my feelings. Said the L word.

Even with teary eyes, I hung up smiling.

And now I'm sitting here quietly, amused by myself, and wishing I could hug the man who made me cry and smile and laugh today.

my heart

My heart. It’s a complicated place. It’s a tricky place. Scary. Even to myself.

I’m afraid to use it, afraid to free it, afraid to break it. It’s tender. Tender in more than one way. It’s sensitive and afraid. It’s soft and fragile. It’s been through some hard times. It’s also tender in the giving-not-taking way. It gives everything, and fast. Too fast, usually.

Books might say hearts are for pumping blood. I say they’re pumping joy and pain. And which one depends on luck. Good luck, which some people have, or bum luck, which I seem to possess. And hearts can hide as well as a kid afraid of a storm. My heart hid for a long time. I didn’t realize it was gone until I needed to use it again. When I realized it wasn’t where I’d left it, I went searching. Behind the couch, in the closet, under the bed. I found it, but it didn’t want to come out. I understood. I didn’t always want to come out, either. Especially when I felt safe. I let it hide there for awhile. I tried not to notice that I was experiencing feelings that required my heart. But they got too big. After awhile I had to decide if I was going to keep turning away from the feelings or coax my heart out of its hidey-hole.

The sweet talking proved successful, but it took a good deal of sugar. Out my heart came, timidly, slowly. Looked around. Quickly darted its eyes back to the floor. Put on dark glasses so the windows to the soul were safely veiled. Before long, it felt almost as safe as the hidey-hole. Eyes were confident again. Veil gone.

And, nearly following, the unavoidable consequence of sharing: pain.

Too much. Too comfortable. Too safe. And then it hurts again. “Why?” it cries, in desperation. Eyes still confidently forward, but wet. Hurt. Feeling, still, but wishing for anything but feeling. On the outside, it tells itself it’s ready to go back in hiding. But really, it still feels and doesn’t know how to stop. “Who taught me to feel again?” it asks, exasperated. “Why did I trust that voice?”

It holds its head in its hands as it slowly makes its way back to its hiding place. The hardest thing was turning off the hope. It looks back once more, peering out, one last look for a glimpse of hope. Seeing nothing, it hangs its head and closes the hidey-hole door. Locked away again.

Locked away doesn’t make my heart full. It doesn’t mend the pain. But it keeps it safe, and in time, it will be numb again. The way it was before I remembered how to feel again. I’m going to forget. Soon. I hope it’s tomorrow.

new

I decided to start this new blog for writing. I've been neglecting my writing for quite some time now, and I want to give it the attention it deserves again. I feel very rusty, but I'm sure confidence and ease will come with time and practice. Bear with me.