Sorry for the serious posts. I promise I'll get funnier soon. Lately I have been gazing at my navel and feeling sad. Not sad about my navel, that was just a figure of speech. I have simply been feeling sad.
Feeling sad is an accomplishment for me because I haven't been good at addressing my feelings. This caused a backlog of unfelt feelings that I stuffed under the bed. There aren't literally feelings shoved under the bed, that's another figure of speech.
The dialog in my head went like this, "I feel sad. Oh, no! I shouldn't feel sad. Instead I am going to feel happy, really happy, frenetically happy! Woo hoo! Look at how happy I am god dammit!" This approach started in my early teens and continued until I ran out of room under my bed, in my closet, in my basement storage room, and in my sock drawer for my unfelt sad and bad feelings.
And then Al Qaeda jihadist's slit the throat of a man sitting next to my brother on a 757 over Pennsylvania and the sky fell in. There was simply too many terrible, horrible, no good, very bad, and sad feelings to contain. I did try.
First I simply started to leak my sadness. Tears would rain down my cheeks even when I wasn't really crying. I remember my wonderment as tears collected under my chin and plopped into my lap while sitting quietly in church, on a plane, or I drove my car. And believe me, I wasn't conscious of being sad.
Second I tried to outrun my feelings by training and slogging through the New York Marathon in 2002. Next, rather than address my feelings, I waged all out war on myself. My immune system attacked sending my thyroid into hyperdrive, causing my heart to race, my hair to fall out, and my eyes to bulge from the pressure of those pent up feelings.
Finally I blew.
Unlike the plumes of ash shot into the atmosphere by Grimsvotn in Iceland, I don't think I gave much warning. Rage exploded out of me. I was f#*!ing mad. Like Vesuvius I rained down fire on my life, torching my house with me inside. And the thing about being in a burning house is this, you have to run through the fire to get out before it burns to the ground.
Feeling sad is an accomplishment for me because I haven't been good at addressing my feelings. This caused a backlog of unfelt feelings that I stuffed under the bed. There aren't literally feelings shoved under the bed, that's another figure of speech.
The dialog in my head went like this, "I feel sad. Oh, no! I shouldn't feel sad. Instead I am going to feel happy, really happy, frenetically happy! Woo hoo! Look at how happy I am god dammit!" This approach started in my early teens and continued until I ran out of room under my bed, in my closet, in my basement storage room, and in my sock drawer for my unfelt sad and bad feelings.
And then Al Qaeda jihadist's slit the throat of a man sitting next to my brother on a 757 over Pennsylvania and the sky fell in. There was simply too many terrible, horrible, no good, very bad, and sad feelings to contain. I did try.
First I simply started to leak my sadness. Tears would rain down my cheeks even when I wasn't really crying. I remember my wonderment as tears collected under my chin and plopped into my lap while sitting quietly in church, on a plane, or I drove my car. And believe me, I wasn't conscious of being sad.
Second I tried to outrun my feelings by training and slogging through the New York Marathon in 2002. Next, rather than address my feelings, I waged all out war on myself. My immune system attacked sending my thyroid into hyperdrive, causing my heart to race, my hair to fall out, and my eyes to bulge from the pressure of those pent up feelings.
Finally I blew.
Unlike the plumes of ash shot into the atmosphere by Grimsvotn in Iceland, I don't think I gave much warning. Rage exploded out of me. I was f#*!ing mad. Like Vesuvius I rained down fire on my life, torching my house with me inside. And the thing about being in a burning house is this, you have to run through the fire to get out before it burns to the ground.
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