Last night, I walked. And as I did, I passed a church whose doors had just opened and the attendees of a funeral were started to funnel out. I thought it was odd to have a Monday evening funeral, but kept walking.
Up a hill not far from the church, in the dim light of a nearby streetlight, I spotted a dead opossum. It reminded me of the time I accidentally picked up part of a dead cat thinking it was trash during a community clean-up day. It wasn’t a discarded rag–it was a large clump of matted fur and decay.
I was texting my friend as I walked. I told her I was thinking about writing a book. When I told her I had just stumbled across a dead opossum, she was inspired to share plot ideas. They all centered on grotesque and potentially tragic. My ideas, she told me, were boring.
There’s that word again–boring.
Nevertheless, I came home and drew a scalding hot bath and after turning pink inside its water, I dried myself off and began writing. I wrote mostly about me, and I found the narrative punctuated with recollections of when he left me last year. Clearly, I still have some bitterness to air.
I did all of this alone. He had to take a pair of track pants he’d ordered for his daughter to her, and she wanted him to take her shopping. Never one to tell her no, he did. He asked if I wanted to come, but I told him it felt like a father-daughter thing. He kissed me goodbye and told me to have fun.
Have fun? Doing what exactly?
Do something fun, he said. That’s an order.
So I went for a walk. Because sulking is unattractive and presumably he would come home at some point. I don’t know why I feel jealous of his daughter. Or maybe I do. Or maybe, I’m enviable of her youth and her lifetime still ahead of endless possibility. I’m tempted to ask if his eldest daughter needs anything–his youngest seems to have a monopoly on all the requests these days. Or what about his sons?
I catch myself wondering if he noticed his oldest son’s disappointment and resignation when he cancelled on him for skating again this week.
OK, let it go. Just stop it. Right here.
As I told my counselor yesterday, I’m trying to focus more on myself. Use “I” statements like my life depended on it. Talk about my problems, not his. Talk about things I want to do, not about our relationship. My counselor was supportive. And then he caught himself talking about him. And then he got caught up on expounding the history of Freud’s early techniques to treat his patients. I tried to hide my annoyance.
Just like I tried to hide my annoyance when the 30-minute phone call I was expecting with my career coach pushed 60 and she wouldn’t stop talking. I gleaned a lot of great information from her, but I clearly lose patience when people talk too much.
We can scratch being a psychologist off my possible career list.
My job search is not going well. I’m getting attention from employers who want to pay me less than I’m earning now. It’s a bit maddening at times. I have a wide-variety of skills, abilities, and experiences, not to mention an advanced degree, and still…peanuts.
The career coach suggested I sit tight at my job for another year and enhance my skills. I want to challenge her: why then did I pay you $300 to revamp my resume and coach me through this job search?
I’m rethinking my career ambitions (again). I like interacting with people. But I love numbers, too. As I said in a recent interview, numbers make a lot of sense when people don’t.
There’s a position in Vancouver, WA, that is enticing. Public sector. Benefits analyst. A perfect mix of human resources, administrative duties, and financial management. Why these positions don’t exist in South Carolina, I don’t know. And I’m not alone in my job search–several of my CoDA group members are looking for jobs right now. I wonder if it’s a job market thing or a codependent thing.
I feel like I’m once again saying a lot of nothing. And that’s not necessarily bad.
It just makes me feel—you guessed, it: boring.
Am I boring?
I never thought I was. Or maybe I never really cared to be not thought of as boring. But inevitably, I feel boring. Like really boring.
God, this writing is boring.
I am boring myself. I. Am. Boring. Myself.
I just slapped my hand to my face in this realization. How did I get so boring? And how does one break out of boringness? Is boringness a word? If not, it is now.
The temptation to eat myself into oblivion today with pastrami and cheese sandwiches is running high at the moment. But that’s what I usually get for lunch if I order a sandwich. Again, boring.