Ah, yes.
The bitchy week.
The week where everything goes wrong.
The week of willful ingratitude.
The week of weak.
Do you ever have weeks like this?
I’m pretty sure I’ve been a total prize to be around.
Well… hold on. I don’t think I’ve been all that difficult to be around, but if there were a small community of people living in my brain, they’d have long ago tried to migrate and establish an independent state in my spleen.
Until I vented it, that is.
I’m not sure why I’ve been so negative, other than a particularly rollercoaster-y jag of hormonal activity (along with the odd, unpredictable physical manifestations of the same) and a fair amount of stress in a few areas of my world. But I know nothing I’m going through is all that big a deal, really.
I just can’t seem to get the perspective I need to shake off the frustration.
Which only frustrates me more.
I hate feeling sorry for myself.
I hate indulging that gross part of me that thinks I’ve “got it rough.”
I hate the almost-crying itch in the back of my throat, and I hate that I can’t drown it with coffee.
Most of all, I hate hating anything, because What. Is. The. Point.
It could be so much worse than this.
This Tuesday afternoon, a man jumped 26 stories from a building I can see from my office window. My co-worker actually looked up from a phone call to see him heading for the glass and metal awning that he glanced off before he met the cement.
I’ll never forget the way her voice sounded as she tried to process what she was seeing, just like I’ll never forget the sight of his legs splayed, or the blood, or construction workers pacing with cell phones, endlessly running their hands through their hair, never standing still.
They took his body away and hosed the area off and now you’d never know he’d been there.
You’d never know anything happened at all.
That’s my definition of worse.
I need to wake up to the ease of my own existence.
To change what I can and then move on.
To not allow what hurts me to define me.
And to understand that whatever is happening now, I am nowhere close to falling.
I’ve been thinking about that man’s family ever since.
It’s a perfect change from thinking about myself.
All I could think about that day — while his body still lay uncovered on the sidewalk — was how obscene it was for so many total strangers to be privy to the fact of that poor man’s death, while his family were going about their regular day with no clue as to what had just happened.
Tragic.
Suicide is a very personal thing that I don’t understand. Perhaps in his death, he got visibility that he may have so greatly craved?