Moving On.

Well, I’m in a better place than I was yesterday.  All. Fucking. Day, yesterday.

I hate that place in your own head that’s like the Mental Bermuda Triangle.  Can’t go forward.  Sure as fuck can’t go back.  Just – free floating.  In shit.  That’s where I spent yesterday.  And last night.

And then my alarm went off at 5:15 this morning and I sprang out of bed and into my workout clothes.  And as I was throwing my hair up into a pony tail in front of the bathroom mirror, I noticed that my arms and shoulders are starting to look amazing in a sports bra and tank top.

I drove to the gym and hopped on the bike, determined to work my “problem areas” today, namely my ass and the little pooch on my stomach that WILL NOT DIE.  I selected the Program For Those Who Want To Kill Themselves By Way Of Sheer Exhaustion.  And I made it through.  Dripping Gleaming with sweat and ass muscles burning.

I huffed and puffed my way through the rest of my workout, slightly self conscious because of the two Women Who Always Treadmill/Bike/Elliptical/Something Cardio and the iPod buds in my ear.  I wondered if my wheezing was as loud to them as it felt like it was.  And then my beloved 2Pac rescued me with his reminder, “And That’s Why They Call You Bitch”.  I breezed through the rest of the ab torture with a smile on my face.

I came home to my quiet house, as everyone else still slept, despite the fact that at least one of them supposedly has to leave for work the moment I get home from the gym (hence the 5:15 wake up call).  I made breakfast and revved up the laptop.  And danced my little (or, littler anyway) ass off in my kitchen, all by myself, as I let 2Pac console me because he’d “rather be an N*i*g*g*a….” and he understood that “bustas ain’t lovin’ me right”.

Where are those men, anyway?  The ones who get that all you need is a little more machismo in your life and a little less fucking “busta”?

ANYWAY… I’m still in kind of shitty place.  But I’m resolved.  And stronger.  And reminded that I can get through this fucked up place just fine, fuckya very much.

Because my arms look great.  My legs feel amazing.  I’ve quit smoking and started working out consistently.  And I look damn good shakin’ my moneymaker around my kitchen when no one is watching.


To all of you, who reminded me that lots of people go through this crap, thank you.  For your empathy rather than sympathy.

To the friend that tried to help in the best way he knew how, and damn near lost his head, I’m sorry.  I know you genuinely just want to help.  It’s a little girlie the way you always jump in with a solution  – but I adore you for it.  If you’re not doing anything, maybe you can pick me up at that spot where you saved me at 10 o’clock at night months ago.

To the TWO dumb asses who half put me in this mess, and half pulled me out – only to leave me smack dab in the middle of fucking CONFUSED, fuck you. Both.  Neither one of you knows what the hell you’re missing out on.    Because NEITHER of you are big enough to handle it, exciting enough to get the job done, or smart enough to see a win-win situation when it’s put in front of you.  I can’t even muster enough respect to be mad at either of you, because really, it’s not your fault.  You’re just… not equipped.

And to the friend, from half way around the world, who didn’t judge me, who sat with me for damn near 24 hours straight, who fought for both sides of the fence for me when necessary, I adore you now even more.  I think I would have completely lost myself in the mess inside my head.  Thank you, for being the only one I could share details with.  Thank you, for plotting and scheming for me.  Just… thank you.

Holy shit.  Can you imagine how long my acceptance speech would be if I ever won an award or something?!?!

JEEZ, I could have just said – I’m getting better.

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