The Therapy Journals of the Fat-Headed Klingon Woman

One woman's journey to becoming Her True Self

Following the Mule… November 7, 2010

Title: Sharecropper plowing. Montgomery County...

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Hello all.  Today I am in pain.  My head feels like a cross between the worst hangover in the history of fermentation and a sinus issue so severe as to require enrollment in a study.  My eyes are puffy and they feel like they’re full of salted gravel and it hurts to turn them in their sockets.  What?  No, I didn’t go out and get trashed last night.  I’m pretty sure if I had, I would not feel quite this awful. No, this feeling is a direct result of last night’s family drama.  I got into a screaming, insane fight with my youngest sister and spent the rest of the evening weeping hysterically.


I don’t think I can really say what precipitated this outburst.  I’m not sure, except that everyone was cranky to start with, and there were unwanted goldfish, and sassy teenagers, and previously unspoken feelings, and unshared frustrations and fears, and it all got out of control like nitroglycerine on a tilt-a-whirl. 


The result has been that I have awakened this morning feeling that I’d give almost anything to just… take a break.  From parenting, from work, from family, from thinking, from life.  I have an intense desire to just check into a nice, quiet, calm facility somewhere where they feed you sedatives with your evening jello, and you can throw yourself around the walls of your comfy padded room and just enjoy the freedom to not think.  I’m so very tired of thinking.  So tired of trying to unravel the tangled knot of how I feel and what I think and what I believe and what I want my life to be. Taking a break would be nice.


But then the tiny little remaining part of me that is still struggling to be sensible and responsible says “No.  You can’t do that.  Everyone gets overwhelmed from time to time.  Everyone has issues and problems and things that make them, even if for the briefest instant, long to be swinging from a bridge or cooling slowly in a pool of blood in the shower floor.  But they don’t just decide to check out and neither can you.  You have to face it and keep going and keep trying and keep forcing yourself to do what you have to do.  Never mind that you feel like you’ve been existing on autopilot for your entire adult life except for the last year.  If it works, stick with it.  You know how individual farmers plowed hundreds of acres with just one mule and a little piece of steel?  By continuing to put one foot in front of the other, even when they were exhausted and worried and doubtful and afraid.  They didn’t have time to give in to it.  They knew the only hope they had that things might get better was if they plowed fields and planted crops and those crops survived.  All they could do was keep plowing.” 


It’s kind of funny though.  Now that I think about it, I don’t think it would have done the farmers much good to keep plowing if they were just following the mule up and down hills, through the forest, down the road, through the center of town, and wherever else the mule felt like going.  The metaphor doesn’t work that way.  The crux of the matter was that they were guiding the mule, making it go where they wanted it to go, where it needed to be. 


Well great.  At this moment I think I’d rather just unhitch my mule, sit down on my butt in the middle of the field and watch as it ambles on down the road without me.  Maybe I’ll decide to chase it down later.

So back to the unwanted goldfish part of the story.  My mother took Daughter J. and The Boy to the school band carnival last night.  It was supposed to have been the week before, but it got rained out.  So naturally, when they came in the door last night, they were both wearing hopeful expressions and clutching clear plastic bags containing poor prisoner goldfish.  As my regular readers can well attest to, I am not all about the pets.  We already have two cats and three dogs, and adding two fish to the equation is just going too far.  But they do provide a small source of amusement.  Right now, for example, The Boy’s fish is in a small container sitting on the desk across the room.  I’m not sure, but I think this poor creature is going to give itself a concussion trying to escape.  It’s flitting back and forth very fast, occasionally flipping out of the water, and then continuing to act like it is desperately searching for an escape hatch.  Now it is floating with its face just barely under the water, seeming to breathe heavily.  The funniest part is that the cats are obsessed with the fish!  Mussolini was climbing up the front drawers of the desk, trying to get up there to look at it (or perhaps dine on it) and Hitler was standing up reaching his front paws as far up the desk as he could, sniffing and looking!  Have you ever noticed how funny cat toes look when they’re all spread out and clutching for dear life?


Anyway.  I guess I’m fine.  Drama happens.  I’ll keep plowing, and hopefully I’ll find the strength so I won’t be just follwing the mule through the center of town. 

Until next time,


PS- I woke up this morning and checked Facebook, and was honored and pleased to find a shout out from my blogging group, Studio30Plus.  To their Powers That Be, thank you so much for the plug!  I hesitated to put a post like today’s up on the one day when I might have more traffic than normal, but then I thought ‘What the heck?  This is who I am and this is where I am today.  Maybe someone else can relate.”  Thanks for reading me, and come back again!


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