Friday afternoon finds me huddled on the couch, wrapped up in a blanket, fighting off a horrendous sore throat and I crying pathetically over some lame ass lifetime like movie (which shall remain nameless for my own protection).
I'm sick from overworking, emotionally exhausted and as I look back on it I blame the bookshelves for turning me into this hot mess. Well I blame me but it started with those damn shelves.
I should explain
Last Sunday at 2 in the morning I am toiling away at these bookshelves because if I don’t get it done it won’t get done. Now this is not a new thought for me. In my last relationship I knew/felt that if I didn’t do it wouldn’t get did. But there was still that glimmer of hope.
Now I’m completely alone and well without that slim optimistic sliver of “maybe he’ll…” so its all me on hands and knees at two am finishing up the last of the tool-less shelves in coffee brown from Target’s home décor when it happens…
I flip the page and the instructions have this little triangle. Inside of the triangle are two little sexless block people almost holding hands. An indication that this part is a two person job. Suggesting strongly that I would need help.
I start to cry
I decide that this is a dangerous thing to do when wielding a hammer (tool-less my ass) so after 4 or 5 tears I suck it up, brace the damn things against the wall, maneuver my body into the closest things to a split its been in since second grade ballet and get her done.
For a brief moment sanity seductively flitters past me and whispers in my ear telling me to stop. I have been up since 6:45am the previous day, I’ve done 5 hour long massages, run a ton of errands all over town which include getting these heavy shelves, carrying them from the store to the car and the car to the house solo.
But I’ve been working on this “Reorganize the Room” project since 6pm (the previous day),I have a UU service to attend in the morning, work in the afternoon and dinner plans in the evening so I have to finish.
It became a call to arms
It became a challenge
And as neurotic as it sounds it became a fucked up analogy for my life.
It has to be done. It has to be done now.
No one is going to help me. I have to do it alone.
I have to do it perfectly. My performance is a direct reflection of me
I am not going to pussy out.
I am strong enough.
I finish around 3am with everything. My room, my closet all neat and ocdly in order. It’s perfect and beautiful. My shelves, my fucking shelves with the things I worked so hard for on them.
I’m exhausted and half insane and I laugh myself to sleep...since I refuse to cry.
In the morning I’m beyond fucked.
My eye’s burn, my wrist is swollen my palm is giving out sharp radiating pain, my right knee is swearing eloquently in french.
I call off service, I call off work but I still try to limp around the house and do chores with my left hand disadvantage. Since I can’t manage to lift more than 5 lbs with my right.
I blame the shelves ( and not me) all the way…. It’s a long day. And at this point I am working just because my body doesn’t know what to do with itself or how to stop. It’s a relief when 6pm comes around because I have to call a truce with myself to get ready for dinner.
He shows up.
This guy. A friend I have known for almost two years now and he takes me to dinner. No strings attached, no expectations, just friends and it’s really nice. And when he pulls up to my house I ask him inside to look to see my shelves cause I am so proud of them.
And he looks at them
And says they are nice
And he looks at my wrist
And asks why I didn’t ask him for help
But I’m a mess and I didn’t want you to see me like that
I look at him as Muddy waters I Just Wanna Make Love to You sings out from
the cd player on the bottom of one of the shelves in front of us.
I really look at him
I do want to make love to him.
For some reason I believe that this guy would have helped me build my shelves stat and he would have done it correctly. It’s crazy…is the passing thought I have as tears form in my eyes . This is insane I think as he holds me tightly against him and tells me to let go. To just let go. I cry and sob and apologize and swear as he holds the world still around me. And that song on my shelf is singing into my soul
I just want to make love to you.
Now I’m fucked.
Because as I lay there listening only to his heart beat, feeling his hand moving across my hair I looked over at my perfect shelves that I worked so hard on. Then deeper still I looked at my life and everything in it.
And in that moment, and breath, and beat, held tight within his arms I realize with shocking, startling and paralyzing clarity just how fucking tired I am, how completely and utterly exhausted I am
of building it alone~