All week at work, chugging along like The Little Engine That Could, and at a certain point of super-busyness, I stopped, took a breath, and examined my psyche from head to toe.
I was happy.
Not giddy, over-the-moon, "somebody loves me!" silly, but quite peaceful, and happy.
It was a warm and familiar feeling, knowing that I was once again up to my own life.
Oh, yes, I said to myself. There you are. You got a little lost, didn't you? Well, come on. You're safe now. (I resolve to only speak kindly to myself from here on in)
Realizing that I spent most of April and May in a state that could easily be mistaken for happiness, but was in fact much closer to how a little kid whose babysitter gave her candy after dinner spins and spins and spins and gets more and more wired and is bouncing off of walls and is *this close* to melting down. Wired to the tits, my friend, the whole time. I wonder if that's how cokeheads feel (I've only tried it once, didn't like it, move along, nothing to see here.)
It feels good to get my feet back under me.
And I'll be damned if I let someone do another sweeping leg kick on me ever again.
1 comment:
Good for you! As bad as this was, it could have been a lot worse ... just two months and now you have all this valuable protective experience and self-knowledge.
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