Tears of Solitude

Sometimes I sit at my desk at work and wonder what the hell I'm doing with my life. My kids could be having sex in the back of the room, and I would just be sitting there. Tears swimming in my eyes as I try to focus but feeling so alone in the midst of plenty of kids. I feel that way a lot. Alone. I think it's what drives me to imagine flying through the air off my balcony or the satisfaction of heading headfirst into the hard, unforgiving stump of a tree. Just the knowledge of having all these racing thoughts finally come to a halt. 


And I wonder how I can feel alone when I am surrounding by such amazing forces at hand. The God I believe in and the family who believes in me. I don't understand why there is such satisfaction in sucking down a Virginia Slim in secret or why tears fly randomly down my face as I'm driving home in silence. 


Today I was speeding down the highway with heavy eyelids, and I saw a puppy limping on the side of the road. I couldn't keep going. I went to pick up the sweet baby with the mangled paw, and I put her in my front seat. I took her to the vet, and as the doctors took her away I burst into tears. 


I don't understand tears of solitude when in actuality one is in good company. Even if that company is a poor, injured puppy.

My Picket Fence is Broken

Preface: This weekend, a family that I became very close with at work came into town. My girlfriend is EXACTLY like me, and her husband is so laid back and just a good guy. Their two kids are adorable. This is what I want, right?


I was walking home from Trader Joe's yesterday, and I was thinking these things through. Being neurotic, of course, I was flying between two mutually exclusive things. The ideal American life of a home, white picket fence, kids, and an adoring husband. 


or


This independence that I had craved for so long and finally achieved. Shopping whenever I wanted, watching TV in bed all day because I could, sleeping in until I felt like getting up. 


Then, I'm in the lobby of my building, waiting for my friend, and a girl (unmarried) who I used to work out with comes in from outside stumbling with a random guy. I know he's random because he's not the guy I saw her making out with at the pool yesterday. She either doesn't notice me, or is too drunk to notice me because I am clearly staring, and her eyes can't focus in one place for more than a minute. She has to watch where she's going and push her tilted leprechaun hat upright before it falls and she looks even sloppier. In her high heels, she looks a bit like a drunk clydesdale stomping around to find her footing. 


I wonder why I even question the life I want when I see people like that. I don't want to be alone when I'm 30. The dating world is vicious, and I don't want to be a drunk clydesdale. I want to be held in the arms of the one who loves me surrounded by my family.


Somebody better damn sure fix that picket fence. 

Hidden Cigarettes

I don't even smoke. But after my job threw me into such a tumultuous funk, I had two choices: cigarettes or suicide. I got in line at Wal-mart in the tobacco aisle and sheepishly looked around--praying I wouldn't run into anyone I knew. My face was burning as I immediately blurted out "I don't even smoke! I've just had a bad day at work!" She smiled down at me and smiled her rotten-toothed smile and picked a pack of Newports out for me. Laughing as she scanned them (holy shit they're expensive!) and handed them to me. "I hope your night gets better." she said as I scurried out of the store with my antidepressants and cigarettes. I'd say overall, a pretty good day at Wally World. Couldn't wait to pop one of those little pink pills to ease my desire to run across the universe and dance on the stars. When I'm alone and without them, all I want to do is fly. But then I remember that I can't fly. So I do the next best thing.

I get home and pour myself a full glass of red wine from Trader Joe's. I sit on the balcony and watch the sun set over the concrete slabs of Buckhead. The sky is an amazing array of pinks and oranges. I light up my cigarette, and I can feel the surge of nicotine hit me. It. Is. Good. I'm flying. I'm flying, and I'm watching the smoke furl towards the ambiguous heavens, and I'm wondering. I'm wondering what God is thinking right now. I wonder if he's thinking about me and my neurosis, or if he's busy handling my friend whose brother shot himself straight in the head during a game of beer pong. Or if he's handling the little girl in my parents bible study group who has been dealing with cancer for so long that her head is now as soft as velvet. Or if he's handling my Granny whose been rotting away in a crazy-I-see-babies-crawling-on-the-floor-all-the-time state of dementia.

Then I finish my cigarette and go throw up. I hide the pack in my drawer full of air fresheners for the next time I'm ready to fly.