Caterwauling

I don’t dream much. But tonight’s will stick with me for a long time to come.

I was given a choice at work between the recently departed boss and the current one. You can have either, they said.

I said, neither, in the dream.

As the choice was repeated (because I’m feeling unheard these days), the recently departed one was somehow messing with my hair. Something he’d never do and frankly the thing I loved most about him is I got to do all my volumes of work in peace.

And for the record, no one touches my hair, speaks of it or even acknowledges it. Unless they want to meet an untimely end.

That part of the dream was particularly weird because it’s the current one who keeps an eye on what we’re wearing. (My getting sent home must have opened that up.) And even said the thing I had in my hair on Friday was reminiscent of the ’60s.

What did I say about my hair?

I picked the first one.

When I worked from home on Fridays, I felt weekends were just long enough. I’d snap my laptop shut at 7 pm (after staring at 7 am and having no breaks) and start my weekend immediately. 

And work didn’t even feel like work. It was busy and challenging. But I loved it. 

Momma needs a three day weekend. Or six. Whichever. 

I read today that people who don’t care whether the glass is half-empty or half-full are the happiest people of all.

So, don’t think of it as a total and complete demotion. Consider it a pay raise for not using all those unused top-dollar skills.

BOOM.

Amid the worst month of my life, there were some bright spots. Thanks, of all things, to my birthday. 

My good friend decorated my new, well I wouldn’t call it a cube. More like a desk in a fishbowl in a hallway that has odors that make my eyes water. But it was filled with balloons and signs and homemade cupcakes to share. And a cute little special box of cupcakes to take home to mom. 

It brought two lunches with friends. In the same week, holy shit. The only lunches I had last week. 

And two more to come, I hope. Although one will never happen. 

There are two of us who aren’t allowed to eat at the same time. So I often miss lunch entirely because I can’t leave when I have time. She got us special permission to eat together on my birthday but I already had plans. So we lost out. And will likely never get that blessing again. 

(No one else has missed a meal yet. Least of all the decider.) And we all know I’ve had like three lunch hours a YEAR before this. It’s not like I have used the time afforded to me, let alone abused it. But it hurts when I am sitting there alone and the whole rest of the department gets their hour at the same time and by the time I am able to go, I’ve gotten busy again. She’s out most of July. Guess I’ll starve to death.)

In any event, I also got a big surprise day trip yesterday. Did not expect that at all. Pleasant adventure all around. 

I’m used to being good to people and never having a soul even acknowledge me. I’m not used to people being good to me. I don’t even know how to react. 

Maybe folks know I’m depressed and one more missed lunch away from walking out. 

I don’t know. I just know I’m grateful that I know some pretty awesome people who care about me. 

Not the best day ever today. 

I’ve taken more Advil in three weeks than I did in the past three years combined. 

Time to buy stock in Pfizer. 

The body count keeps rising.

A
B
C
D
G
JB
JC
JW
MC
MS
N
SB
SG

Honorary mention would be P. P and the second S and I were the Three Mouseketeers.

Funny how you always knew this was how it would turn out.

“You should ask X for (thing I really need from them),” they tell me.

I say I’m still mad. Not necessarily at X. Well, not entirely at X. But when one person’s decision ignites YOUR world on fire, yeah. Need a little more mad time, thanks.

“You NEED to ask,” they text back.

I say look. I’m grateful for all the good. There was a whole lot of it. And I think I cherished it all. Maybe not as much, toward the end. But I still knew the risks of leaving first. And those helped me stay.

“They owe you, Goddess,” they say. “Your life was dedicated to them. Your heart, soul health was invested. They know that. Don’t let it all be for nothing. It was bigger than all of you before it was a pile of dust.”

I think about it. And the revelation appears out of nowhere.

He didn’t want to be one of “my boys.” And I don’t know how to compute that.

They aren’t all “my boys,” you know. Sure, I give them every opportunity. Most of them realize a Goddess-less life isn’t worth living. And a Goddess-blessed one is filled with a whole lot more joy than the alternative.

One of my boys typed to another the other day, “If you’re not one of Goddess’ boys, what are you, really?”

I was cc’d. And so very pleased.

I think I always felt second/third/whatever fiddle. No matter how much I gave or tried or hurt or stressed or worried. Maybe I wasn’t so far down the food chain. I don’t know. Perhaps I needed more validation than I got. Or perhaps my apparent lack of needing any was off-putting.

In any event. I do feel owed. You go all-in and you are standing there alone half the time. Not bond-building. You memorize every detail of their life, and they probably still don’t know your cocktail of choice that you never ever deviate from.

It’s OK. It’s always OK. You’re always OK, even when you’re not.

I’m not a fan of this “Smile because it happened” shit. I will damn well cry because it’s over until I die.

But I’m getting better. It’s just not happening on any timetable that anyone would deem quick. And I may never get what it is I need/deserve. Not from this person. Maybe not from anyone.

But there is always the hope.

Folks ask my friends how I’m doing. What I’m feeling. If I’m plotting.

No one has asked ME, mind you.

What’s funny is that I catch the main asker whispering. A lot. And the conversation always stops when I walk in/past. Either it’s about me (doubtful — I don’t give people much to talk about) or problems/insecurities you don’t want confident, happy, secure Goddesses to overhear.

Maybe folks shouldn’t ask if they don’t want me inquiring right on back.

At least I’m not a fighter for ISIL. 

At least I’m not in a sex-trafficking ring.  

At least I’m not living in a hollowed-out hospital in Aleppo. 

At least I don’t have Sean Spicer’s job.

At least I have a home. Even though the assholes upstairs go on benders every night and smash up the place and I drive as tired as can be every morning.  

That’s how I get through the day now.