The Edge.

When we overdo it, we want just the edge to come off.

We stand on the ledge between forever and now sniffing the air for relief.

Relief from too much of what we have eaten.

Relief from too much of what we have had to drink.

Relief from too much of thought.  Too much work we can't keep on top of.

Never being good enough.  Never knowing the sweet nectar of success.

We are expected to love, especially as women, especially as mothers, especially as partners:

Love is a loaded word.

I love my work.

I love my dog.

I love my man.

I love my children. [always]

I love my body. [big fat lie, but it's not all that bad]

And what if my dog died twenty years ago and my work is driving me mad in all sorts of directions and well, my man, is my man.

Love is a loaded word.

I overdo it when I'm not sure which edge needs filling.  I over do it when I do know.  Usually the body suffers the most as I tip too many nachos along with too many beers and too many thoughts right after the other, until that numbness caresses the neurons that feed into other neurons and the sad story I have been telling myself can finally end.  I finally begin to feel the fuzz around the pain.  And I can soothe myself.  It was just a silly story, nothing to fret about.

Numb.

It doesn't matter if he didn't return your email.

It doesn't matter if your boss is wrong.

It doesn't matter if I gain five pounds.

It doesn't matter that I still cry over my German Shepherd twenty years later; almost every third night.

I've never known how it is to belong anywhere, or at least that is the story I tell myself.  I am full of it.  Full of that story

But my kids, I think they know, they clearly know where they belong right here with us, but even with them, I can feel a film of imaginary cellophane scroll down between us as they interact with the many teenagers they've brought to our house.

"Why our house?" asks my husband.  "Why are there six teenagers in our house on a school night?"

Clearly he hasn't had enough beer.

And I have.

I gather myself together.  We take care of the teenagers.

And another day goes by where I have talked to the trees, yelled at the sky, shopped, made dinner, put in laundry and cried that morning listening to country music all the way to work.  I am falling apart, so minutely that it may not be obvious to the naked eye, but eventually where I stand, there will be only the phantom of someone I once was trying to become.

I fight to sleep until I fight to wake up.

Love is a loaded word.  I need to fill up.  On that thing that is all over the place right now, in lights, in action, live in person: SELF LOVE.

Who are those people?

I better find out, I have a good feeling it is the only that will take this edge off.

Sandra XXOO