I’m eating my lunch at one of the long white table in the lunch room, the tops dirty and sticky with the remnants of the last people. I take care to brush the crumbs away, wipe the wet spots. Someone else sits down, takes out his lunch. Wags around his brown banana. I make a face before I realize it.
“What?” he asks combatively. “What’s your problem?|
I start internally, nonplussed. “I don’t have a problem. I just detest overripe bananas. I like mine firm, a little green, so they’re sweet and almost like candy.”
He scoffs. “You’re always so negative. You’re SUCH a negative person, you know that?”
I dryly chew down what’s left of my lunch, and leave the room quietly.
Why is the realist always negative nelly, the dreamer the optimist?
Why can’t we have our negative thoughts without it being a detriment to us, or those around us?
When my mother died, I had the same thoughts as everyone else. That it was a relief-that she was finally released from pain and suffering and disease, and moved on to, where ever. The pain was done. But I ached and I hurt and I pined for her, for my mother, and when those pitying old ladies with the laquered hair and nude nails cooed at me and told me it was all right, she was in heaven with god and all the pretty ponies, I just wanted to ball up my 11 year old fist and pummel them within an inch of their repulsive little lives.
I didn’t of course. My mother never raised me to be a snotty little brat. So I smiled sweetly, and felt bad for, well, feeling badly. For not seeing the silver lining. For having the nerve to be ungrateful.
I missed my mother then, already. But had to view her passing as a blessing I should give thanks for.
2009 has sucked my ass. Yes I’m thankful for the blessing of stability that I have. I’m so fucking happy to not be bouncing off walls moodwise, to not stare down the front of a city bus and think about my death, to not spend my time chronicling the million ways life has let me down. I’m thankful that I’m a better mother.
But to all the people who say I should focus on the good things, and not the bad, in that twee voice that makes me cringe?
Fuck you. I own my unhappiness as much as my joy. And I value each as the lesson they truly are.
I lost my job at the beginning of this year, the first job that defined who I was, work-wise, but also a job I despised, working for a woman who bullied her employees to the point that they couldn’t function. But try as you might, to a degree, who you ARE is tied up in your job, and this hit me harder than I thought it would. Inside, I felt horrid, as my who and why crumbled and I sat desperately trying to scoop them up in my arms.
I got a handle on this, but dealt with my marriage, unsteady, with no fixed goal. But I thought it was a stumbling block, a road we were unsure of. I figured with time, we’d work it out.
November gave me the answer. He wanted to leave me.
I’ve been married since I was around 20 years old. As someone was nice enough to point out-this is the person I was with for the entire adult life so far. I hadn’t thought about it like that, and once I did, no wonder it felt like he was taking my arm as well as the couch. I loved my family. I loved the idea of having a family, of a mother and a father and children in their little house, making a home.
But he didn’t, not like I do, he didn’t want this, at least not with me. And that’s the hump that’s hard to take. That I don’t fit in his worldview anymore.
But I will survive. I will move on, and maybe I’ll meet someone and fall in love and maybe I’ll meet someone and have lots of sex and maybe I’ll be content, on my own for awhile. Change happens, and change is good.
But fuck you if you think I’m not entitled to my anger.
I’ve read posts where people offer their gratitude to the universe, and I salute them, as I cannot do that right now. I’ve read posts chatsizing people for expressing anger when they should be grateful for what they do have, and that if they’d just stop expressing anger, then maybe good things would be around them and bless them.
Fuck you, I’m angry. You hear that 2009? I’m pissed off at you!
Bad things happen everyday. I’ve had enough really bad things happen to know that it’s random in many cases, without cause. They just do. We aren’t entered in a global keno draw. And if all things are relative, no one is dead, no one is dying of an incurable disease, and syphillis hasn’t eaten my cheeks off.
But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, and it doesn’t mean I don’t have the right to be angry and hurt, or the right to talk about it. Aren’t we told enough to be good kittens and keep all the bad stuff in? Don’t we get told enough times to suck it up and keep moving? I know I have. Sometimes I’m negative-I call it realistic. My head isn’t always in the clouds, and it’s who I am. I acknowledge the badness in my life, the horror and the agony, and make it mine.
I’ve had numerous people tell me that divorce is great, new people, new life. And yes, that part is appealing.
But not nearly as painful and terrifying as facing an empty bed after 12 years.
I claim my anger, and I claim it here. 2009 can suck it.
I am who I am. I have opinions about things. I have emotions about things too. And this year is one I’d like to forget. This year, the end of this decade, hell, the majority of this decade-years I’d like to lose. 2009 has been my slimy brown banana, edible yes, but detestable all the same.
Let me be angry. Then let me move on to the new year, all fresh and green and hopefully, sweeter than candy.