"God wants you to be alone in your empty apartment"--L. on my sore foot
My foot is pretty much healed. Seemed to be a flip-flop accident where I tried to keep said shoe on without proper practice (note; long longgggggg Canadian winter).
I'm running like a normal person again. Normal for me anyway.
I'm also having some more 'normal' reactions of late, the kind I have when I am not patient, compassionate, or humble enough.
I lose it on my family sometimes. Different members, different times.
I never, ever feel good about it after. Does it stop me from doing it again, in a subtle variation, over and over again? No.
And when I talk about my family, I'm not talking about a husband or kids, I have neither; I mean my good old 'family of origin', the one you love more than anything, but who can also cause annoyances (in my case anyway) like nobody else. And I can react toward them like nobody else.
This is the dynamic though. This is what I was brought up with, conditioned to, and no constructive solution was ever introduced. We are a tense family, coiled up alot of the time with irritation, and in living on my own for many years, I have attempted to bring calm into my realm. Then I go home. And as I've going home ALOT lately, it's starting to grow on me, like moss.
Then I come home, home, as in back home to my downtown loft. M. has gone back to his home state to run his restaurant after living with me from November to March. So I'm living alone again (Hi April. It's me. I'm alone again).
So then I go down the laundry list of life and decide that other things are unsatisfying as well.
I'm carrying around a plastic shopping bag of my parents' mail and forms and the POA's (that stands for Power of Attorney). I didn't know what that even was, prior to somewhere around the second week of March. But then I surprise myself. I have moments of random happiness, dispersed in the (many) moments of mountainous sadness; an eighties song on the radio as I drive in the rain, the lift of a cup of coffee; these things never disappoint.
Is that the definition of my own form of maturity? I don't know. My concentration skills are shot.
But I have little pockets of hope.