fuckit

I have been sitting at this fucking table for the last five days trying to write something.  Trying to find something to say that would ease the angst and lift the weight that is suffocating my soul.  But what could I say?  What combination of words can you put together to adequately express all of your failures, weaknesses, adversaries and demons?  How do you do that?  Do you tell people that the reason you live in near poverty is because you don’t see anything better for yourself?  Do you say that being alone is easier than being connected?  Or maybe you could tell people that you had to tell the father of your child that you can’t absorb all of the everything anymore.  Then there was that Christmas morning text from the sister who you haven’t heard from in three years that read “you are a ruthless bitch.”  I could probably write about that.  That would probably get the ratings.  Or you could talk about how you got dumped by a man who was supposed to be “different” in a really casual, yet very expensive manner, four days before Christmas.  Those are the things I have been sitting her trying to write about for the last week.  But I couldn’t find the words.  There are no words for any of that. 

Because when you try to articulate that shit, the first thing that people want to do is tell you to forget all that and just be grateful for what you have.  Never fails.  Ever.  That’s the first sentiment out of other people’s mouths when you have a hard time.  They say “don’t lose sight of what is important.”  Or “you are so blessed.  Don’t let this get you down”  Or my personal favorite “You have more than most people.”  What the fuck kind of encouragement is that?  You think that because I am having a hard time, I can’t see the gifts I’ve been graced with?  You think that I’m ungrateful for what I have because I can’t shake the shit circus that has been shacked up over my being since forever?  This is why we are socialized to not talk about our feelings.  Because if you do, you will be labeled as weak or emotional and be chastised for being unappreciative. 

In the hours, upon excruciating hours, I have spent sitting here trying to find words that don’t make me sound like an entitled douche bucket, I started writing some of these things down.  I always keep a spiral bound notebook next to the computer when I write.  I guess to try to organize some of the emotional tsunami that happens when I write.  So, I started writing.  While I was writing.  I know, I am a multitasking marvel…Anyway.  I looked down at what I had written last night and tried to make a correlation between their relevance.  It wasn’t until I was stirring my coffee this morning, and spilled a little on the notebook that I realized what it was. 

The list was everything that I have been holding on to, trying to control.  All the things that are so far out of my control that I have been trying to navigate and manipulate and improve and own.  But they are all things that I can’t change; they aren’t mine to own.  I can’t change the pressure of December.  It is what it is.  I can’t change douche bags with judgmental eyes.  I can’t change a failed marriage.  I can’t change people who care more about their ambition than being kind.  I can’t change the way that people have treated me.  I can’t change the poor decisions of my past, nor can I replace them.  This is all shit that just is. 

I thought about that list all day.  When I got home from running my errands, I started tearing them out of the notebook, one by one.  I knew I had to do it, but I didn’t know why.  Or what I was going to do with 100 pieces of my past on shredded, college ruled notebook paper sprinkled all over the dining room table. 

It was right then that my phone buzzed from across the room.  I turned around to check it and, as if the universe had planned it, I read a text from my little brother.  It said “Hey Sis.  How are you?  It’s almost over.  Keep fighting.”  With tears in my eyes, the only words I could respond with were “I love you, but fuck this shit.  I’m a pacifist.  I want life to be nice.  I know that’s naïve.  But I want that.”  And this kid, God love his soul, said “You aren’t a pacifist, Angela.  You are a hippie.  By design, hippies fight a different battle just being who they are.  You don’t conform.  If you did, you would be a pacifist.  But you don’t.  Keep fighting.  That’s what we do.” 

I put the phone down and turned around and looked at the scattering of guilt, regret and rejection on the table.  I walked to the back yard and grabbed the aluminum bucket that I stole from a bar, circa 2003.  The one with the faded Budweiser logo that usually houses bottle caps.  I dumped out the caps and wrote in big, black letters:  FUCKIT BUCKET.  There’s going to be a fire running through my past, like Sherman’s march into Atlanta.  I’m burning it all down. 

 Just because I can’t control it, doesn’t mean that I can’t feel it.  It also doesn’t mean that I can’t let go of it.  Fuckit. 

-Inner Peas