|I didn't come up with this idea. A brilliant girl named Sarah did.|
I've started parent-teacher conferences, and so far so good. Because of this, I'm not even going to bitch about parents who insist on having THEIR time needs met, because they are obviously oblivious to the fact there are children besides their own in the class and I'm a degreed and trained professional just like a doctor or a lawyer and I bet none of these people would ever, ever demand an exact appointment time and day from a doctor or a lawyer. Or maybe they would, because some of them actually do come across as the kind of people who'd do that. But it doesn't work with the other degreed professions like doctors and lawyers, because doctors and lawyers (a) have secretaries who make their appointments who will laugh in a really bitchy way over the phone if they try to do that and (b) doctors and lawyers make 100,000 dollars more a year than me and so clients don't set the days and times, THEY get to because that's how money and perceived power happen to work. (In other words: hey parents, have a time FRAME, not DEMAND. And I'll bend over backwards for you if you're sweet about it; but when you take a bitchy tone with me? Guess what? Suddenly my appointments are all full up. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar.)
And yet. And yet. I'm still such a mess. I can't go into all the details, but it's been a combination of the high expectations of others, a general bizarre and unusual insecurity/neediness/double guessing on my own part, topped off by too many fucking hypercritical people coming at me all at once. And money. I find I'm always worried about money now. I pay down my credit card...and then have to use it...so I can have money left over at the end of the month and fool my brain into thinking we've done fantastic at saving money. (Christmas is looming, is what I'm saying.) (And some girlfriends and I are planning a November trip to Charleston.) (Which may end up being my Christmas present to myself.)
Sunday was bad. So, so bad. I wish I could describe for you the depths to which Sunday was bad. Sunday was one of those days that I really considered getting in my car and driving to the Gulf of Mexico and swimming around in it at dusk, daring all the sharks. That kind of bad. A couple of things happened, and normally when crazy things happen I just roll my eyes and quietly whisper Fuck you to whoever it is, and then go on with my life. Sunday I just had a meltdown of a day about pretty much anything. I mean I lost my collective shit with Miss M over how long it was taking her to put on a pair of goddamn shoes. (I mean, for real: TEN MINUTES. In my defense, that would give the Dalai Lama high blood pressure.) Maybe it's hormones. Maybe the stars were misaligned. I don't know. I don't know.
Sunday night I literally cried myself to sleep. The last time I literally cried myself to sleep like that, two angels of God paid me a visit and told me to seriously stop worrying so much. (True story, for another time.)
This time, my dad came to visit me. I dreamt I was living in my mom's house but now it was my house, and it was a MESS. (Coincidence? I think not.) Drawers were open, clothes spilling out everywhere, in every room. And all the rooms were decorated in gaudy gild and glitter, like the zombie of Liberace threw up everywhere. And she had dolls. Oh my god, you guys! The DOLLS. They covered every available tabletop and shelf and WTF dream version mom, with the dolls?
But more than that, 3 people followed me home in the dream. Two men and a woman. I don't remember what they looked like now, but I remember I didn't really want them in my messy house and basically said that to them, but they ignored me and came home with me anyway. And I didn't really stop them. When we got to the house, the front door was unlocked and slightly ajar. I kind of freaked out, sure that someone had robbed me. But then when we went inside everything was a mess, but nothing was missing. Yet it was still so overwhelming - who were those 3 people? Why was everything such a mess? What the hell was my mom doing with all these freaking dolls??
I just sat down on the floor, the one spot in the house that a doll hoarder hadn't gotten to, and started sobbing. Completely overwhelmed.
And then my dad showed up. He came up behind me, wearing a white shirt, and wrapped both arms around me. He didn't speak to me, but he had a huge smile on his face. I don't remember feeling really relieved or much of anything at all to realize he was there, hugging me. Just sort of gently surprised that he was there, wondering where he'd come from, and happy he was hugging me but also surprised by that too, because hugging wasn't really something he ever did when he was alive. And so I just sat and let him sit with his arms around me...and then I woke up.
I realized, as soon as I woke up, that my dad had come to visit me. And so I sobbed some more. I told him thank you for coming to check on me. But it just made me sadder. You guys, I really, really miss my dad. My dad would've taken me out for a margarita and listened to me. And then lectured me and gone off on ten side tangents. And paid my electric bill.
Next time I come here to write/spew/whine/mourn, maybe I'll share some man experiences that I connect with my dad, who was the sun, the moon, and the stars for me; who never really understood how important it was that he was those things for me. And I want to tell you, Internet, about Steven B. who broke my heart in a million pieces and it took me a long time to glue them back together. And about Steve J. who broke my heart in a billion little pieces some of which I still can't find. And maybe a little about C, though I try to be careful about writing about him because he's going to be in my life for....forever...because of Miss M, and he didn't break my heart. He tried to fix it for a long while, but it was too hard for him. And maybe that happened because I never really wanted it fixed and so I never really let him. (And there were personality traits he has that may have kept me from wanting him to.)
At any rate. I had a dream about my dad, and now he's been on my mind since then. And at first, I was just all kinds of undone by the dream. Because I think that's when they come visit us, in our dreams, when our paranormal defenses are down. And so I've been aware, since late Sunday night, that my dad is...hovering? Or near me, somehow. And this is both comforting and melancholy.
And yet. And yet. I'm back to being rational again. Strangely detached from things; feeling slightly impervious to the needs and expectations of others. Don't really care if someone doesn't like me or want me or think I'm awesome. It's not that I don't care about other people; it's that I don't care about other people's opinions, I don't care what anybody else thinks or does (for now, because I know me and the me I know only goes through these strange no-fucks-given phases in slow spurts).
Remember how Glinda the Good Witch gives Dorothy a protective kiss on the forehead in The Wizard of Oz? Maybe that's what my dad did for me Sunday night. Waited for his in, and then wrapped me in white protective light. I'm in a bubble. A protective, no-fucks-given kind of bubble for now. I'm a nice person; I genuinely care about other people, sometimes more than is good for me. But ultimately, at the end of the day, I really need to go to sleep without sobbing. And so this actually feels kind of cocoon-y. Calm. And I like it. So I'm going to stay here for awhile.
I'd really like to title this blog entry No Fucks Given. But I'm worried about search engines picking it up and sending weird people to me. And so I'm going to call it my Protective NFG Bubble entry. And NO, you can't use that! I might trademark it.