Usually, I have it under control. I can breathe through the difficulty and rise above petty grievances. However, at this moment I’m being a Bad Mid-Western Woman.
My fuse is pre-lit and I’m looking for a chance to explode. Just give me the opportunity to sigh, to passive aggressively roll my eyes, to clinch my fists and scream internally at my frustrations with your existence.
And yes, your words of “comfort” reminding me of what I have and admonishing me for being frustrated and unhappy when I have so much to be happy for, is perfect fodder for this fire.
Because this isn’t based on any rational expectations. My unhappiness isn’t tied to my life or my actions. It’s springing from some genetic code, some chemical embalance, some erratic sleep patterns and bad eating habits. It’s only connected to who I am like cancer is to a cancer patient. It isn’t me, but something inhabiting me.
You’re “comfort” only enhances the disconnect.
I could list the wonderful things that surround me. The beautiful friendships, the loving relationships, the hopeful opportunities and life altering experiences. I can list to my heart’s content… because my heart is content. Something outside of this is listless, out of control, malcontent and dangerous.
And this is making me the Bad Mid-Western Woman I am being. The guilt piling itself in the corner as I hover, hands over my ears, watching the plates slowly stop spinning and come crashing to the ground.
For no reason. For no pleasure. Just because.