Tuesday, September 7, 2021

Preserved

Mason jars saved my life today. The thought of my children being tortured with the question of why I offed myself after buying two cases of Mason jars with the obvious plan of preserving some vegetable or another, gave me pause. So, with twenty-four empty glass jars rattling around in the back of my Mini Cooper, I drove back to work with a knot in my stomach and the urge to pull over and cry the tears that sat in my eyes, stubbornly refusing to give me the satisfaction of having visible proof of my emotional pain. 

Fifty three years of life on this planet have culminated in this moment of not quite what I’d call, “despair,” but, rather a substantial dislike of being alive. Systems are breaking down, weight is going up, Fatigue is a constant companion, and Joy has flipped me the bird and taken off for sunnier pastures. Infidelity visited a few years ago, and wrecked everything in sight, leaving Confidence and Trust broken and whimpering amidst the ruins of Love. For five years, I’ve wandered around the remains picking up pieces only to toss them aside again, no longer knowing how they fit together. The ghosts of the past whisper with increasing persistence “you promised yourself you’d never let anyone do this to you again, and yet here you are, you old, broken, fool.” 

Each passing day the frustration, the irritation, and the aggravation with Life grows. How can I be 53 years old and not know who I am or where I’m going? How did my belly turn into an oddly stretched out, pinkish bowl of pudding that has to be folded in to the waistband of my irritating, Incredible Shrinking Pants? How did I end up in yet another relationship that has left me hating the woman in the mirror because she bears an uncanny resemblance to the girl whose father convinced her she was worthless and unlovable? After all this time…how in the HELL have I not learned that love songs were never about me?! 

The morbid yet somewhat humorous thought occurs to me that most people would be rather shocked at me being taken out by Me. “She was always laughing!” “She was so outgoing and funny!” Maybe I’d also become “loved by everyone,” “so incredibly talented,” and, “the rock of her family.” Doubtful. But, maybe. Death makes dull people suddenly quite interesting and amazing. “Wickedly, witty she was, that Amy!” 

Inappropriate thoughts aside, the questions surrounding the darkness in me remain. WHY am I so unhappy, and WHAT exactly do I do to “fix” it? Is it the circumstances of my life that I find depressing, and what part have I played in creating those circumstances? Will flipping the table over, kicking the door shut behind me, and calling it quits fix anything, or just create more misery? Do I have the strength and the willpower to make necessary changes if I conclude that changes are indeed necessary? Am I okay enough with Me to start over, or have I spent too much of my life loathing myself instead of loving myself to ever be at peace? Can what’s broken in my house be repaired? Do I want it to be, or am I just picking through the debris to find the keepsakes before packing up and seeking shelter elsewhere? What if all houses can be broken? What if what I build again with painstaking care to make it impenetrable, sturdy, and strong, turns out to be just another shack made of straw? What if? What if…

“Here lies Amy. 
Wickedly funny, and the greatest juggler to ever live. 
Beloved by name, but felt loved by none.
She wished to live in a fortress, but in the end, only had enough bricks to surround her heart.”