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My Profile
She blinded him with whiteness - 2008-07-25
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9:45 a.m. - 2008-01-31
Remember a couple weeks ago how I said I needed to get my act together? I've been really trying to follow through on that. Each day since then I've been doing a bit more than the previous day. One more chore. Another 200 words. Adding another trip or two up and down the stairs. Making myself get busy until busy becomes habitual again. It's working, I think. Yesterday I went out a little early to meet Wolf's bus. Instead of standing in the open doorway shivering and sucking on a cig I grabbed a rake and cleaned out the perennial bed. This morning it was nicely satisfying to open the door, look down and see the neatly fluffed black mulch instead of the mess of sticks, leaves and flattened dry stalks. I have that same accomplished feeling when I go down into the cellar and see tidily swept bare floor instead of hummocks of laundry and wadded tumbleweeds of dryer lint. The dark side is rearing its ugly head though, the overall satisfaction is fading and being replaced with that anxious throat clutch I remember so well from the dark days. The panicky voice asking if I've done 'enough'. A question always answered in the negative. For every smile over a shiny countertop there are two frowns. One at the cobweb in the corner and the other at the smears around the cabinet handles. I seem to be hardwired to be incapable of ever resting on my laurels. It's disgusting. I don't want to pull myself together only to use it as an excuse to tear myself apart. Funnily this realization came scant hours before a discussion Mick and I had last night. I was at the stove stirring the Pot Mess™. (A mixture of thawed beef stew I'd made and frozen months ago bolstered with leftover roast beef from Sunday and Tuesday's pork pot roast. Who's a thrifty gal? Me!) Mick was sitting on the stepstool telling me about his day. He shook his head as he told me about the fight Gloomy Gus had had on the phone with his wife. Seems Gus had wanted the Mrs to do something and the Mrs refused. They went back and forth about it and then Gus hit her with the coup de grace. "God dammit! You're home all day!" Mick looked at me all owl solemn and asked how any man could say such a thing. My jaw dropped. "Um, honey? You've whacked me with that nasty little gem twice so far." "WHAT??? I have? I don't remember that." "Oh you betcha. The first time you did it I about died. Same shit Mike used to throw at me. Don't you remember me going all clockwork mouse ironing curtains and repainting the front stoop and scrubbing floors at 3:00am? Freaked me right the hell out." I shrugged. "Every guy hits his woman with that one. So don't be breaking your arm patting yourself on the back about being so much better than Gus." Mick's normally red face went pale and cheesy. "Baby, no. I did that to you? Seriously I can't remember saying it, but I must have. Look at you, you're still hurting. I am so, so sorry, honey. I can't believe I was such a dick." "Neither could I, that's why it hurt so bad. About the only thing you could do that hurts worse is to tell me I'm fat." During dinner Mick apologized and apologized. Finally I told him to knock it off, I'd didn't want to talk about it anymore. I was having trouble enough keeping a hold on my self-worth right now. Despite putting more money into the pot than he and Mike combined, despite the ever tidier house and the good meals and my double chin not being quite so prominent anymore I was struggling not to feel like a loser. Like dead weight who never did her share. Being reminded of his secret conviction that I'm a bon-bon eating layabout was NOT helping. Not at all. I am determined to get past the soul suck. To stop trying to martyr and victimize myself. To find that place where I feel good about myself and what I do. I want to make more money and be thin again and keep a lovely home because it feels good to be good, not because I'm a self-loathing doormat who's trying to prove I deserve a place at the table.
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