mom???

Sobbing. Today, I sobbed. Snot, tears, thoughts, anxiety. SHUT UP!!!! Who will shut them up? I'm trying my damnedest... to completely collapse or stand taller. Enough is, well, enough. Time to tag out. I can sit along ringside and watch my allies kick some LifeLessonAss.
Amazingly, I strategized the manuveur to the ropes. Ducked. Floated. Friggin hurtful punch to the left jaw. Blood. Tears. Gulp. Shake it off... making it to relief.

No one?

Where?

Anyone?

No. Okay just half more round... but hurry up. No really, Hurry up. Get your shit together. I have to do ALL that AGAIN?!

Just hurry up. Know my limits. Won't last.

I'm still fighting. Gave up waiting. Figure out mid-panic, ain't coming.

Acknowledgement. Understanding. Theories. Not one of them will stand in to sharpen the blur of brown, blood-tinged, copius stool on my face. Still smell it. Still feel it. Still embarassed.

No one brings water.

No one brings attention.

No one.

Not one.

Mom?

Grits for ONE

This morning I pulled out the smallest sauce pot I own. Craving grits and a scrambled egg, I was awestruck at the amount of water it takes to make grits for one.

How do I not face the fact that I'm cooking for one: me. I could microwave. I could make normal amount for spouse and our two daughters -throw away residual. Skip grits; make toast.

How do I make grits for me, and me only... and be okay with that? When do I get to embrace it? Savor the ability to not pull out shredded cheese for the girls. No Splenda for the spouse. Just creamy, long-simmered, salted, thick hot grits ... and a side of scrambled egg. Yes, one egg.

What is worse? Making grits for one, or, making grits for the wrong one. Comfort in a familiar role dissipates with resentment and anxiety.

Not hungry any more.

hello

it is proper to introduce myself.