*I promise I'll bring the funny back tomorrow. Today, this has to be said.
I woke up on Friday morning, and I was happy.
I didn't have to work, and I had tons of errands that I could mark off my to-do list. And by tons of errands, I mean errands that have been on my to-do list for like, um, well, over 2 years. Since I first moved out of my parents' house. Silly me.
So I made a list and left the house. My first stop was Walmart since I had pictures that needed to be developed. While I was at the picture making machine practically breaking my goddamn finger trying to use the "touch screen" bullshit that obviously does not recognize my finger as a human finger, a woman walked up behind me. She looked to be about my mother's age - late 40s. She had no makeup on, her hair was frazzled, and the bags under her eyes were evident.
"That thing is such a pain. It gave me trouble, too."
"Oh, thank God. I was starting to think my fingers were dead, and I just didn't know it," I responded with a laugh. After a minute of small talk, her pictures were finished developing, and she picked them up out of the machine.
"I've never used these machines before, but they helped a lot since I have to get these pictures to the attorney right away," she said as she flipped through the pictures. I glanced at her face and waited to see if she wanted to speak more on the subject, not wanting to pry. "You see, my son was just in a car accident. He nearly died, and we have to have before and after pictures." She held a photo up of her son, I assumed, in the before picture. His mouth was a huge, wide grin. The kind of mischevious grin that makes you want to know a person.
I smiled. "He looks sweet." She nodded and stared at the photo for a few seconds longer. She flipped to the next photo. Her son in a hospital bed, hooked up to monitors, with scrapes and bruises covering his face. Hardly the same boy I had just seen smiling as if he hadn't a care in the world. "I'm so sorry," I told her. "I can't imagine how difficult this must be for you."
She smiled with tears in her eyes. "I could have lost him. He's alive, and that's all that matters. The first night he was in the hospital, I sat next to him for hours, watching him sleep, watching his chest rise up and down. Just staring at him and thinking of how lucky I am. Lucky that he's alive. It reminded me of the days when I first brought him home from the hospital. That's all a mother can ask for, isn't it?"
I believe in signs. I believe that there is a higher power who sends signs down to Earth in order to prepare us for what's to come, to test our strength, our patience, our hearts. I should have seen this one. A warning -- be thankful for what you have. You can lose it in a moment.
Late Friday night, I sobbed on the couch while Andy held me.
"I listened to that woman talk about how thankful she is to have her son alive. I listened to her say that nothing is more important than your loved ones. And then I do this," I said, tears streaming down my cheeks. "How can I listen to someone saying these things and act like a raging psychotic bitch the very same day? What the hell is wrong with me?"
WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME?
I've asked this question so many times that I've lost count. I've asked others, I've thought it, I've written it, I've screamed it at the top of my lungs, hoping that someone, anyone will finally give me an answer.
"What do you want from me?" I've screamed at ... God? Buddha? Whatever higher power is watching me.
I'm not myself. I can see Crazy Psycho Bitch Sara freaking out. Throwing things, yelling, crying for no reason, collapsing on the floor in a heap because she's just given up. Because she can't escape this hellhole in her head. I tell her it isn't a big deal. It's just the fucking dishes, for Christ's sake. It's not worth a three-hour long fight. But she doesn't listen. Because she's a crazy, psycho bitch. She doesn't just push people away. She picks them up and throws them as far as she fucking can. She thows them again and again and again until they realize it isn't fucking worth it to keep coming back. Which is exactly what she was waiting for. Because now she can feel worthless and unloved which is exactly what she wants.
But I am not her.
I will not be her.
Occasionally, I might need to remind myself of this. I might need to put myself in "time-out" to clear my head and get the psycho bitch out. But I will be better than her. Because I have a hell of a lot to be happy about. And I do love myself, as much as she tries to convince me otherwise.