lamentations

“In the real dark night of the soul it is always three o' clock in the morning,
day after day.”
- F. Scott Fitzgerald

_____________________________________

I cried my way home from Charlotte.

All of it.

The climb towards cruising altitude
the rough air when the plane tossed like an ATV jumping sand dunes at kitty hawk
I cried during the beverage service, when I was tempted to order a double,
mid-afternoon
I cried sitting bitch between a gum-popping pregnant woman
and an elderly man who's cranium shook from side to side while he slept
like a bobble head doll
I cried even though I knew the lash blast would streak like fresh paint
under running water

I cried as I traveled toward home.

I don't understand the platitude about God not giving us more than we can handle.
To what end?

More than I can handle before an embolism?
More than I can handle without leveling my eyes at strangers who annoy me
for no legitimate reason?

All that means is that life will go on regardless.
It doesn't even promise you'll survive.

Work is a mess right now.

People keep shuffling things from their crowded plates to mine,
which has long since overflowed.
My natural tendency is to deck these people.
To put their actions in perspective.
To level them with my words.
At least in my head.

But of course I cannot. I would not. I don't really even want to.
It would only satisfy the part of me that would like to spread the toxicity,
which threatens to choke out the light.

Besides,
the rare occasions when I do raise my hand in complaint always leave me feeling
petty. foolish. exposed.

Yet when I don't complain,
when I shoulder the burden and keep my feelings to myself
I'm told that I'm intimidating. Arrogant. Not human enough.
Not prone to show weakness.

I doubt the passengers in seats D and F would agree with that assessment
as my shoulders shake and my make-up runs.

People always offer to help, but they rarely mean it.
I started to say never, but Doug would disapprove of my use of absolutes.

It feels like never to me.

In my experience, everyone is busy and I am alone.
Accomplished, but alone.

I know how to survive.
That's what I'm good at.
I get shit done,
Rob Peter to pay Paul
Dream the answers
Write while driving
Type frantically as the seconds tick and hit send before the buzzer
only to be lauded for the effort.

But I don't know how to do that and remain soft.

I don't know how to do that and not appear as a monster
to the people who promote "balance" without lessening expectation.

It's a catch 22 I suppose.
But it's my catch 22. I have to live it.
And my sherpas are never around.

God is around.
But he can't write my creative brief.
And He doesn't choose to heal my mom's cancer.

Best I can tell He promises that the sun will rise even if I fail
and when I die I won't have to write creative briefs at all.

That just doesn't help me on the long flight home from Charlotte.