bummed

Today I quacked and sang and beeped like a forklift, blew kisses to babies and laughed with young mothers. Afterwards I went to the staff fridge and pulled out the big plastic jar of tea I had taken this morning, which had been given to Mike by a co-worker. He doesn't drink unsweetened tea, and as I took a swig of it, it occurred to me that it could have drugs in it. Or poison. I drank it anyway, because if he's taking drugs I'll find out and he'll be busted, and if he's trying to murder me, fine, good luck with that.

It was just tea. I was a little disappointed.

I don't like the word insecure. We use it to describe a personality flaw, a weakness, but people who feel they do not have secure and reliable food, love, housing, or safety are usually correct. It's a bad feeling.

Things are okay. Nothing is actively going wrong. But I am feeling not secure. Unsafe. I pushed the man away in my sleep a few weeks ago, and since then the ground feels like it might shift underfoot or drop out completely. And I'm staring at the man, saying, I laid out the plan, the kids are almost raised - either keep steady and don't fuck it up, or make a move and fucking go already. I've never been able to get rid of him. He keeps coming back, looking for redemption and then being disappointed when the mended thing isn't as good as the original thing. Disappointed that I'm shrugging and raising the kids instead of rekindling our true love. Except it was never true, and it never can be. I don't want it anymore. I want a house and healthy kids and family holidays and the bills comfortably paid. "You're happy," he says, "But I'm not happy." Motherfucker, have you met me? I am not happy. I am fine. I am sad and okay and heartbroken and resigned. I give myself permission not to set fire to myself in order to rekindle things for you. I am not the gatekeeper of your happiness, go get it yourself. Set yourself on fire. Maybe I'll warm to it.