Buttons

How did all my buttons get disconnected and re-wired to only trigger sadness? I can think of a million things and get the same reaction: 

"How sad!"

I was out walking, and I thought of my boots, the ones I bought last year to keep my feet from getting wet when I would walk through the wet grass. I had spent an inordinate amount of time in Big 5 only to come home empty-handed and frazzled. Nothing seemed like the perfect balance of comfort, cost and waterproof (my new requirement).

I told Sharon about my dilemma and she was full of wisdom, as always. "Spend as much money as you need to, that's what it's for."

I eventually found some boots at Walmart at a decent price that filled out all my requirements. But I was still one to look at the downside. Even if I had the perfect footwear for going for walks, and even if I actually went walking, what would my stupid brain be thinking of? I had a whole list of problems at the time, things that could distract me from seeing the Grand Canyon, even if it were right there in front of me.

Sharon again had the answer, "You're going to think about how those boots are keeping your feet nice and dry."

Now, I think about her saying that to me and it makes me sad. Because only she ever cared enough to poke around inside my messed up head and try to get me to see something differently. I've walked through plenty of wet grass since then, and each time I think about how nice and how dry my feet are staying. But I also think about my life coach, Sharon, and how much I miss her. No one ever has or ever will understand me to the degree that she did.

So, when I look down at my boots, I think, "Here's me, in these boots, no one knows or cares about me." 

The same goes for my sensible Wrangler jeans, my black t-shirt, my black Green Bay cap and my orange safety vest (she bought me that, of course, so I wouldn't get run over on the road). 

I'm out on a walk, trying to do the responsible thing and exercise, get fresh air and all that. But what's going on in my in my head is blocking 90 percent of the benefits. I'm just dying of my own patheticness. I'm "failing to thrive," because every single thing I encounter just brings me back to melancholy.

Once again, I've inadequately described this feeling of mine. This feeling of how a picture perfect day, with puffy clouds, birds singing and frogs and crickets giving it their all, with babies in strollers dressed up in cute little jumpers and everyone's face so full of hope--how all that can devastate me and make me a bawling basket case. 

We all step out, put our best foot forward, wake up with good intentions of a happy day. But so vulnerable are we, so unaware when we put on that happy outfit, that we can't possibly know what tragedy is just around the corner or has possibly already occurred, awaiting our discovery.

It is the sadness of identity. "This is me! Here's what I'm about! I like this or that, dress this way, hold this opinion. I'm someone! Love me!" And my heart wants to open to all of that. To love each and every thing, because it exists. Because it has an identity. 

I want everything to be ok for all time, to stay new, to not die or break down or have a bad day or frown. I want everything to be perfect, even in its sad, not so perfect, but uniquely individual state. But it's not. 

Puppies and kittens will have troubles, a little kid will cry at his birthday party, everywhere there is trauma. An ice cream cone will be dropped. A man will be irritated in a parking lot somewhere. There is no perfect day, ever.

So where do I change out these glasses for rose colored ones? And how do I re-wire my door bell to play Star Wars? I'm tired of seeing the bad in everything. Are there acupuncture needles that can penetrate my skull?

I don't know how Sharon put up with me for so long. I guess being bedridden and unable to leave had something to do with it. She told me many times of how she longed to be rid of me, but stubborn me wouldn't let her go. Then it became impractical, then impossible for her to leave. She had to leave this earth in order to get away from me. 

Yeah, there's no one that's ever going to care for me like I am only, most likely, imagining that she did. She was as tired of me as everyone else, she was just stuck with me.

And now it's just me that's stuck with me. I wonder if that will end when I leave this earth, or if I'll be my same sorry-ass self in the afterlife and beyond?