"Miss Martha, you are so weird!" "I know . . . isn't it wonderful!?"

My guru has informed me that perhaps my time in therapy is not best spent bitching about specific situations.  Perhaps, she (not so?) gently suggested that I ask my therapist for techniques to learn to let things go in general.  The thought of doing this made my shoulders and jaw lock in anxiety.  Who does that?  How can I *not* take everything that is going on in my life now right personally?

Those around me are a reflection on me, whether they mean to be or not.  Whether I want them to be or not.  If *you* don’t do it, then I have to, because if it doesn’t get done, we’ll all look like shit, right?  In my mind, this is absolutely right.  Do I let those around me fall on their faces?  . . . but, then, me being me, would feel totally obligated to pick up the pieces for them, dust them off, finish whatever it was that they started, and allow them to take credit for it.  I want to protect those around me, because, in essence, I am protecting myself.  When “you are the company you keep” and, for whatever reason, you’re no longer in control of the choice of that company, how does one reconcile that separation?

I want to protect that which I view as “mine” even if, in reality, it isn’t.

I *AM* the mother fucking Big Fish.  The one that the little fish swim near to keep safe.  When did I forget this?  When did I let that part of me go?

I take such pride in what I do, in what I’ve accomplished, in who I am, in who I will be . . . why am I letting those around me pull me into such an abyss?  I haven’t forgotten how to swim, but the shore seems farther and farther away . . . especially when you’re pulling a boat full of other people with your teeth.

I have forgotten more things than most people will ever learn in their lifetime, yet I feel inadequate.  My mental MS hiccups, while perhaps minor to some people, I find frustrating beyond belief.  I was the walking dictionary, now I practically have to carry one in my purse to remember how to spell my own name.  I finish dinner with my husband, and I can’t remember what we ate, even before I’ve cleared the table.

And what a life that is for him . . . when we chose each other, I was a completely bi-lingual graduate student, who got a professional job before she even completed her degree.  Now there are days that I have no idea how I even got to work.  Scary doesn’t even begin to cover it.

My hyper-vigilance has been replaced by tubs of medication and self-help books that sit, collecting dust, next to my bed.

I’m attempting to rejuvinate myself and my career this year.  Don’t worry, I don’t plan on going anywhere . . . I just want to be *that much* better at what I do.  I want to be kinder.  Wiser.  Healthier.  Happier.  Happier would be very nice.  Relaxed . . . perhaps impossible . . . but it’s worth a shot.

I want to be able to view myself as the kids at work view me.  Good, bad, or otherwise . . . they always come to me.  Why?  Because, whether they know it of not, I *AM* the mother fucking Big Fish.


Comments on: "Frannie said there’d be days like this . . ." (1)

  1. I want you to know, dear, that you make a difference. It has nothing to do with how hard you work one day in comparison to another; rather, it has everything to do with the fact that you smile, you laugh, you’re humorous, each and every day. You’re one of my heroes (heroines) for that reason: despite the crappy (literally or figuratively speaking) day you may be having or how much pain you might be in, you still walk with your head held high and your smile across your face. That’s heroic, Martha. You are a joy and a light. I know you feel like you have the world on your shoulders – or like you need to carry it because no one else will – but you need to let yourself be human. Your heroism lies not in how well you do or how much you can juggle, but in the person you already are and choose to be each day.
    Love you!

    – Number 2

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