Of course you do.
What a Hot Mess
It’s a total bitch to have forgotten the past. My entire childhood is scattered in bits and pieces that I attempt every now and again to shove in to place. Sometimes, I get so frustrated that it’s like when you’re at the end of the 1000 piece puzzle and all you really desire in the entire world at that moment is to finish the damn thing, so you almost try to force the holes to be perfect fits for each appendage of the cardboard cut out pieces.
I’ve done that a lot in my life, shoving all of the pieces where I think they need to fit because all I’ve cared about was completing the puzzle and ending the game. It’s the most frustrating feeling when you squint your eyes and try to imagine how the image will look when everything is finally in it’s place, but life happens and the next thing you know, your son has knocked a few pieces out of place and on the floor and then your cat eats the corner piece as if you hadn’t just fed it an entire oversized bowl of Friskies. Thanks a lot, Lily.
However, has anyone ever stopped to wonder to themselves, What the hell am I even going to do with the thing once I’ve finished it? Do I become one of those people who glues it together and mounts it on the wall like some great achievement because buying a twenty dollar puzzle of Thomas Kenkade’s artwork was cheaper than buying a replica to frame and hang over the fireplace like the fancy folk? Or, do you scatter it all over again to see if you can beat your last time. Seventeen days: personal best!
If I continue to use the metaphor of a puzzle to explain how I continuously, royally fuck up my life time and time again, then I guess I’m between hanging everything that I’ve accomplished on facebook to show people I’m not some worthless, perfectly symmetrical piece in Jesus and Satan’s chess match and I actually have my shit together… Or, you know, taking it in strides that once I finish this particular thing, there will just be another one to pick up right after. Dealing with life’s punches again and again to beat my last personal best score?
Where do I even start? Why does my brain continue to ask all of the hard questions at night? To keep me up well past the time I’d like to call ‘my bed time’, which really it’s about two to three hours past the ‘bed time’ I had originally scheduled. They – you know, doctors, therapists, counselors – say that you should record these thoughts, these feelings. It will make it feel better, and it may even open up some clarity to… to what? What’s wrong with me, doc? Can’t you just prescribe me some drug and make it all better? What’s that, this thing is only in the beginning stages of being a diagnosis? You need to see me more? You need to discover drugs that will actually affect it other than substituting it with bipolar medication in hopes that it assists?
I suppose I will write this in the same way that the puzzle pieces (re: memories) come to me. Maybe we’ll both learn something.
Fuck. What a hot mess.