Wednesday, March 1, 2017

What's at work when you're not?

Not to go shopping, or get my nails done, or to leave the house at all.

5:00 a.m. came too early, as I’m sure it does for everyone. 6:00 a.m. the husband is fully up and almost ready to leave for work. Yes, work. 7:00 a.m. I am wide awake. I’m checking news, e-mail, Facebook, and the next thing I know it’s really time to get up. I don’t move. I don’t want to move. So I don't. Didn’t I just talk about this exact type of situation?

I’ve had a few soul moms throughout my life. I have a soul mom at work. I told her just last week that I’m feeling blah and how it takes everything to just get out of bed. I told her Pete is feeling the effects. You think he does? she asks. She sees me as the best wife ever. That’s why she’s my soul mom.

I tell her about my weekends: I get up to read and write and journal and I get tired quickly and fall back asleep. I wake up for a few hours and maybe eat, and then go back to sleep. That’s a spirit trying to get to you.
My soul mom is a strong believer who tells me about the power and peace she has found by meditating on His word. She prays every morning, reads her Bible everyday and she talks to God throughout the day. It’s so important to have an open dialogue with God at all times, she recently told me.

I’ve tried to meditate. I get so relaxed that I just fall asleep. When I’m reading, it’s so comfortable that I fall asleep. I’ll be sitting trying to meditate and start falling asleep. Yes, the same thing happens to me I’m thinking. But I know that’s just the enemy trying to keep me from God. So I shake my head and go back to meditating. Sometimes I meditate for two minutes but I do it everyday because I know I’ll get stronger and stronger and no spirit will be able to get to me.

Oh. So the difference between my meditating and soul mom’s meditating is when I get sleepy, I sleep. When she gets sleepy, she says “hell no” and keeps at it. Soul mom! Help me.

Mid-way through 2015 something happened. I don’t know what it was or what was said or what the circumstances were, but as I do with all of my unsuspecting victims I started crying to a woman who is the receptionist at my company.

I’ve come to hate crying in my adult life. Ten years ago I cried at the first sign of twenty-something danger: failing grades, rear-enders (my fault), mistakes with friends, mistakes with boyfriends, talks with police officers (also known as “making a statement”)(yes, alcohol was involved), etc. And that is a heavy etc. As an adult, crying to coworkers and acquaintances and to anyone after my first sip of alcohol is weak and inappropriate. Crying to my counselor - this is okay. Crying to my friend’s husband’s direct report - this is not okay. And you can tell that last thing really happened because of the depth and specificity of those involved.

Well this receptionist told me that we should go have lunch sometime. Soon. I said okay, and I really meant it in the moment. A while later, that little brat I still babysit, but am so close to shutting down, gave me all she had: pooped green insecurity, peed red anxiety and heaved chunky-oatmeal “this won’t last.” On me, of course. I was soiled with shame, not from the adult me crying, but from where those tears came from. But the churning and bubbling had already begun, and we were on God’s time now.

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