The Skirts, Unraveled


Things that came up and (unexpectedly) kicked my butt this past week:

  • I was scheduled to play piano for church yesterday. My dog ate my music. No joke. The stupid thing can barely limp up and down the stairs, but he somehow managed to find and destroy the one thing I needed this weekend.
  • My coworker and I were reprimanded unfairly on Friday out of the blue. Harsh and untrue things were said.
  • One of my best friends is leaving for Iraq. Today. He'll be doing the same thing he does here in Americaland (airplane maintenance) but for like triple the pay. It will, however, do triple the damage to my nerves while he's gone.

Normally, I would just shrug the first two items off and dump them in a pile of "Memories That Were Not So Great." They would remain buried under a rug somewhere, hanging out with a good portion of my memories from junior high. The third is obviously of a little more importance to me, so I'm prepared for it to continue kicking my butt in the weeks to come.

There was nothing normal about the way I handled anything this week, though. I broke down crying more often than I'd like to admit, and I even wound up begging for hugs on Twitter. I panicked when I found that I didn't have music for Sunday, even though I don't usually practice beforehand. I couldn't go. My mother graciously agreed to let me call in sick, but I froze at the idea of making a phone call. I told her I wanted to quit my job, to quit going to church, to quit doing everything I was forced to do. I spent hours sobbing while she listened to me talk in circles about how unhappy I was with one aspect of my life or another.

Finally, at the end of her rope, my mother offered me three choices — play piano, call in sick, or agree to go to therapy. My decision had to be made by quarter to six on Sunday morning when she came to wake me.

I am here to testify that some decisions should not be made at 5:45 am. This was one of them.

As of today, I am officially bound to a verbal agreement with my mother which states that I will go to therapy beginning this week. (Fortunately, I managed to tear myself away from Dreamland this morning long enough to make sure that this is simply a one-month trial as opposed to a ten-year commitment. Ditching one day of responsibilities isn't worth ten years of therapy, not even to an emotionally unstable and sleep-deprived trainwreck.) I'm not sure what to do with this concept of needing help or accepting help, so I'm going to crawl back into bed with some hot chocolate and blankets. I'll watch some Lord of the Rings and hope this was all one giant nightmare.

Oh right, and I'll pray constantly that nothing happens to this wonderful boy young man while he's overseas.

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