I spent this summer hoping.
(I had hoped never to do such a thing again).
There was a three week window that I spent primarily in bed or on the floor in front of the fireplace, lost in mental fog, exhaustion, and the after-effects of spiritual overspray.
I was sick, not just depressed, but it's a chicken/egg scenario in my world. And while I used to tolerate it or write it off as the weather or an anniversary of some travesty or another, this time I got mad.
And I let the anger out.
(My therapist will be so proud).
Which isn't why I did it – to be clear – but I have had other opportunities and let them pass by, or deflated them. I suppose I will give myself credit for saying “I'm supposed to tell you I'm angry with you,” earlier in the summer, which was indeed a step.
I wish that saying I was angry felt better, but it didn't make the anger go away. And that's not the point. The point is saying – your behavior is not ok, and neither are my boundaries.
Let's right this ship?
Or sink it.
I remain committed to the idea that I want to participate in friendship – relationship – whatever – as though we will be cordial in 5 years, whether we're married or passing on the street.
(That's my integrity speaking. I'm so glad I found her.)
I'm sitting with how often and how loudly and how clearly I have to describe and define my boundaries before I sound like border patrol, or put a sign in the window, “attack dog lives here,” or make a t-shirt that declares, “I'm a walking trauma bomb.”
My speech is either so muffled and overstuffed with softeners that the point is lost in the message, or unleashed and bloodthirsty.
I can work on that.
And I am. Clarity without fangs.
You stepped on my toes.
(or my heart)
Please don't do it again.