another messy blog entry, yessiree bob, get the hip boots out
If you were a mind surgeon, dressed in hot white, with sharp and precise tools from the future, you could dissect my thoughts from messy hopes and try to match synapse to synapse. I don't think you could do it. I don't think that's a bad thing. It's just a thing thing. A messy mind of an Avon Lady thing, an Avon Lady who isn't doing a lot of Avon at the moment.
Sometimes I think there's another plan at work. Maybe the person in charge of this local universe tosses these mines in my way to blow me up into a better person, or to point me in a new direction, or to make me all jumbled up like tuna noodle casserole for some greater purpose. But you know what? You can only entertain these thoughts so many times before you want your peas in one pile and your fish in another. Yeah, dammit. I want my peas in one pile, off to the side, where I can count them and eat them at will. But I can't coax them out of the ceramic dish of my brain. Too many binding ingredients.
This morning I woke up with a good idea. I would only think positive things, say positive things, and do positive things. No worrying. No fussing. For one day. Sort of an Avon Mom 12 Step approach. It lasted an hour, until the dog bolted after some poor old man in dingy white boxers getting his newspaper on our walk.
I've managed to alienate a good friend this past week, and I don't know what I did. My emails to him were shorter than usual, and I was upfront with my emotional state. Must have been a bad move, because I haven't heard from him. He won't return emails, doesn't call. It stinks. I need my friends now. I need them to understand, to let me be Freaky Avon Lady with NASCAR pants, let me forget things and drop things and swear like a sailor at dingy old men. I always listened to him when he complained about his wife and job and inlaws and health. I never said Boo! Never complained that he was too gruff, even when he was mean and arcane and held my feet too close to his fire. But I have one bad episode and I'm toast. Geeze, people are people are human are flawed are funny are warped are all glued together with bits of sand and old chicken bones. Let me be me.
My therapist says to be gentle with myself. She says this event will be one of the most traumatic and emotional experiences of my life, regardless of what else happens. She says that no one else can understand this, can feel this, can ever in a million zillion gabillion years touch my mind and pull out the meat unless they've been through it themselves. So I end up cutting everyone extra slack, making paper dolls out of friendships, pretty dolls, keeping them dressed and colorful and fed, all darkness hidden away.
How can you be you and not be you? How can you be a good and special Avon Lady and remember to call customers and write thank you notes and smile and laugh when three quarters of your mind plays in the evil forest of long ago? How can you find the trail of breadcrumbs you left though counseling and tears? I think the owls swooped down and ate them. I think I have to make another trail. I don't know how.
A mind surgeon would be a welcome thing. I'd like someone to look and tell me where I left my courage and sense of humor and my ability to roll my eyes at gooberinos. I'm going to dream of this tonight, dream of my mind map, and grab those missing elements from somewhere in my antarctic and carry them back to morning.
So there. I've got it all out. Thank you for listening. Tomorrow it's back to the Avon Channel. Life goes on.
9:57:49 PM 
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