So I’m having a pretty good morning… got the kids off to school without major incidence… came back home and was cleaning and such and thinking about how yesterday really wasn’t too bad… I’d feared it would be a very difficult day for me because it marked an event about which I feel great ambivalence, and a fair amount of regret… but all in all it was okay. I got things done. I didn’t feel the need to have a major wallow. I felt alright. By evening I’d felt a hurdle had been overcome and I was (dare I say it?) doing some good growing. All of this I was reviewing this morning, and I gave myself another of those little mental pat-on-the-backs (honestly, if I don’t do it, who will?).
Then the phone rang. It was my therapist; did I realize we have a session scheduled for this morning that I’d missed?
You know, I love irony as much as the next smartass, but it is possible to have too much of a good thing.
So I did the big ol’ Homer Simpson DOH! and apologized profusely for my ditziness… checked my calendar, where indeed I found the appointment written clearly right on today’s date. She was very nice about it. But nothing is quite so deflating to the ego’s well-being as knowing that your therapist thinks you’re a flake.
Not that I need a therapist or therapy at all. I mean, I could’ve dealt with the slow breakdown of my marriage, the “100 Years Divorce” (okay it didn’t really take that long, it just felt that way), the saga of Dr. Husband and Mr. Idiotboy, taking a seriously crappy job because of impending divorce, getting treated like crap at seriously crappy job, getting laid off from seriously crappy job, realizing no one was going to hire me to do anything better, watching my savings dwindle, one child with life-threatening food allergies, one child with chronic clinical depression starting at the tender age of four, and maintaining a house and raising two kids all on my own… on my own. I could’ve. It’s just that I figured that would all be a lot more complicated if my head exploded.
Having missed this morning’s therapy session, I give you (for those who asked, and for those who didn’t, too bad) the event from May 20, 2003 that renders me a complete asshat: Just a few months post-separation, I had my first date in about ten years. It was too early, I wasn’t ready, and my choice of partner was–to be kind–questionable. From this evolved a relationship that alternately gave me hope and made me doubt and loathe myself. It destroyed a dear friendship. It nearly destroyed me. I learned my lesson but I think “ignorance is bliss” is applicable here.
The rub is this: I hold a grudge. Always have. (And I do love how–when discussing this topic with my father a few days back–he tiptoed around this particular “feature” of mine as if perhaps I don’t realize that I am a demanding bitch.) In this case, although I am now A-OK with myself and the world and myself in the world and even this person no longer being part of that, I’ll be damned if I can stop being pissed at him. I literally sat him down on multiple occasions to reiterate please handle with care, I am damaged right now and I can’t take more and please don’t move forward if this isn’t what you truly want. He ignored me, because he is a hopeful and selfish bastard. And I will move on, I will love again, I will find the one I seek… and he will continue to walk the walk and talk the talk until the enormity hits him and he runs away as fast as his legs can carry him (again and again and again)… which means I should feel sorry for him. But I don’t. It’s about the most infuriating thing in the world, I think, to see such a gifted person so incapable of love when they should damn well know better.
I don’t know if my missing my appointment falls under the “there are no accidents” category or the “sometimes a cigar is just a cigar” category. Either way, I don’t feel half bad. Onward and upward! (*insert annoyingly repetitive “I’m Still Standing” music here for maximum cheesiness*)