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throwing muses

In a lot of ways, this year has sucked. In a lot of other ways, this year rocked. How do you figure out the ending balance? Does my emotional stability deficit get canceled out by the fact that my kid spent a full hour last night snuggled in between me and Not So with his arms twined around both of our necks? (Actually, it kind of does.) The meds are making me lose weight, but they’re also making me (more) crazy. And so on and so on.

And then there’s the whole business of my dad’s death, which is its own good/bad balancing act. Dying alone in a cheap motel room in Fresno? That’s gotta suck, and part of me feels bad about that, because…I don’t know why. Because I’m not a nicer person? Because I am? But then there was the dream I had the other night, which I am going to share because there is nothing more interesting than other people’s dreams, am I right? And it was a lot like the dreams I’ve had since I ran away when I was 13, in that we were all living with my dad and everyone was pretty much the age they were when I left (my sister was about 8, and my brother was 4 and, you know, not dead, but I was always whatever age I was in real life). The difference in this dream was that my dad wasn’t being a tyrant, though he had ample opportunity, and I wasn’t afraid of him anymore. “It’s like that part of him is just gone,” dream-me said to my dream-sister, who was as surprised as I was. “Now he’s just dad.”

Yes, whatever, my subconscious has never been very subtle. I guess what it comes down to is that no matter how not okay I am now (which is really a lot, if the rest of my dream-life is any indication), there’s the possibility of okay-ness somewhere on the horizon. And that’s a good thing, right?

One Comment

  1. Mary
    Posted December 18, 2007 at 4:25 pm | Permalink

    I think it’s a very good thing. Emotional balance is where you find it and what you make of it. Whether or not you are feeling yourself crazier, your little boy does well. I think that’s a very good measure of one’s self-sanity.

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