Thank God for Blue Carpet

Thank god for blue carpet.

Today was the hardest day in a long time. The Universe, it seems, is keen on teaching me many things.

That if I tell people that they can treat me a certain way, they do.

That I'm not a beautiful blonde woman, and never will be.

That men should not to be trusted.

That when the going gets rough, and I feel like this, it's better to channel my ferocity by tearing out carpet while blasting Magic Giant than it is to drink or act out in other destructive ways.

Thank god for blue carpet.

When I first moved in, I had thought it would be the first thing to go. That I would quickly replace all of it with some form of lovely wood flooring. Something eco-friendly. Something that would increase the resale value. But I'm glad that the economy tanked and the value plummeted, that we lived off of the money we thought we would invest in flooring, and that I don't currently have the financial flexibility to hire someone to deal with it.

Also, that I have some inner rage and ferocity that is on the warpath and looking for blood.

So it's me all day, old shoes and jeans, and a Barbie sized crowbar pulling carpet and tack rail or whatever the fuck Bob Villa calls it. Scrubbing and vacuuming, prying and crying (and bleeding occasionally). The karma yoga is the thing you do when you can't manage to meditate or salute, when your Sanskrit studies are worn out and you have to somehow live through this emotional weather pattern. It is second only to Bhakti yoga, which in my case, is where you sing along with Magic Giant (or perhaps, more classical chants) as you devote yourself to work.

I'm so tired of feeling less-than, and I'm most exhausted by the fact that I put myself in that godforsaken gauntlet anyway. I don't even need someone to manipulate or deprecate me any longer – I'll gaslight myself by convincing my own reflection that it is inferior to everyone else on the internet, the the TV, and even 36 year old carpet padding. Maybe you've never had this experience, whereby you compare yourself to imaginary or unknown others for the sincere practice of self-flagellation, but my guess is that maybe you have. It's so tiresome for me, particularly because I know I'm doing it to myself.

So the ripping is a metaphor as much as it is a tangible action. It's a way of slowly peeling back the layers of belief and misguided misunderstanding. Methodically rolling it up, and getting it OUT of the house.

The guest room is empty, now – bare to the bones – ready to reincarnate.

But I'm still raw and seething. Still working. And luckily for me, the are stairs and the ground level. The master suite.

Thank god for blue carpet.