I'm just so sick of these days.
The days where I show up to work one part frazzled (from wrestling an unwilling three-year-old into a pair of mittens), one part stressed (because of tonight's 6 o'clock deadline), and one part sad (because that's just the way I am these days).
It's the sad part that's really getting to me.
You see, I can handle the frazzled part with a few timeouts and a couple deep breaths. I can handle the stressed part with a well crafted to-do list and my ringer switched to 'off.' But the sad part? There's really no way of escaping it. The best I can do is close my office door, wedge myself into the teeny little nook between my desk and the wall, and let myself cry.
Sometimes I turn the radio up so the woman across the hall isn't able to hear me. Sometimes I don't. It comes on so fast, and I really don't care who has to witness my whimpers any more.
I'm usually okay. You know, I'm able to return a few phone calls and I'm able to throw together a half-decent presentation for a morning meeting. But sometimes--oh sometimes--the craziest little nothings can throw me into an emotional tailspin.
Like that stupid #$%^ing printer jam--how that little frustration turned into an impromptu cry fest for the baby, I'll never understand.
I guess I'm a little lonely. It kind of feels like the rest of the world has moved on (as they absolutely should). But here I am, left behind in a creepy, dusty ghost town with nothing to do but listen to the echoing squeaks as I spin myself around and around on an empty bar stool--and occasionally shout obscenities into the air as I squash the tumbleweeds with the bottom of my boots.
I can see the road. I can see for miles in every direction. I just can't figure out how to do anything with all those options.
And then I remember that I'm not any cowboy. I'm just a 27 year-old girl who's wiping my own snot with the sleeve of my favorite hooded sweatshirt--who likes to make mix CDs with titles like "Blah Day Mix" and "For When I'm Feeling Down" and "Sometimes Life Sucks."
Good heavens, it's like I'm turning into a depressed teenager again. If you happen to see me shuffling around in Goth style clothes while listening to Nirvana, please, by all means, call my mother to discuss your concerns.
I guess this is the point where I need to learn to take people's advice, and just be patient with myself and my feelings.
So what if the sun rising over the lake doesn't bring to mind loveliness, and peace, and God's greatness? So what if the changing leaves don't inspire me to ponder the beauty in death? So what if the only things that make me laugh these days are Jared, James, Sesame Street and The Office?
This is where I'm at. And I truly believe that the more I can feel it, the more I can talk about it, the more I can just deal with it, the shorter my stay will be in this lonely, abandoned place.
I'll take my time, but you can bet your ass that I will not wallow. I will not tarry.
I'd rather take my time and find my way to a normal place, than spend way too long trying to admire the wreckage through a set of rose colored glasses. Besides, I don't even own a pair.
And you know? This lonely place? I'm guessing that it will always be there--unfortunately, no one has the power to bull-doze it. Even after I've moved away, I'm sure I'll be forced to take the unexpected weekend trip, or just swing by for a minute or two.
And that's okay. That's life.
In closing, I'd like to thank every one who has taken care of me during this last month and a half. Thank you for reading my blog and thank you for each of your kind acts. Thank you for sending too much email for me to answer, and thank you for allowing me to experience this grief in a very public setting. I know it's a sharp turn from my normal daily dribble, but somehow, I find it to be very therapeutic.
(That picture up there is all over the internet, so I really don't know who to credit it to. But damn, that is one hell of a tumbleweed.)