Day One…Again

Officially there are only 71 days left of me being a 49 year old.
Yes, occasionally I wake up and turn over and start crying. I cry even harder because there isn’t some other person there to console me and then I turn and face my bedroom door which reads
Be stronger than your excuses and I cry a little more for being so mean, to well…me.
71 days is a long time…right?
The good thing about blubbering at this stage of the game is I realize I do it, well, get close to doing it, all the time. If a commercial has a wonderful song and vivid imagery designed to pull heart strings, I can’t resist the pull. Actually, that isn’t quite right, I can, I’ll just have moist eyes but I prefer not to, and to bawl about the dad being able to lift his child again, without listening to the narrator describe the “rare side effects”. Music really gets me- if it gives me goose bumps and the words are poignant and ring true and the desired response is emotional -whether the intent was uplifting and inspiring or melancholy and worrisome, I feel it in my bones, in my teeth and like I am supposed to do, I’m in tears. Do not tell me a sad story, and have a magnificent actor in the background demonstrating the emotion because I’m sniffling like it happened to me.
71 days is no time, right?
People probably call me sensitive or some such because of this affliction and its the worst, especially when it overtakes you after you’ve told a story about your own childhood and being unloved in front of people and the tears won’t stay back. Its nice on rare occasions when you can hold the hands of someone else who is crying and cry with them about their thing, although you couldn’t help yourself and wanted to anyway.
71 days isn’t enough to do anything differently, is it?
I’m glad most times that I do live alone so I can cry at the high held notes in my favorite musicals, or at my own reflection in a mirror without being observed, and you would think since I like that part, that I wouldn’t want to record it on my blog but I think writing is all about telling the truth, especially for the stream of consciousness poetic types. I wonder how many people who read what I write or will come across this in the future can name the person in their lives who is always crying, or can recognize themselves in my uncontrolled habits and judge me and themselves a little less because one isn’t really ever totally alone.
71 days is enough to fall in love, move and hit the lottery actually…
Its been a while since I’ve had anything to say and a while since I’ve taken good care of myself, and I don’t remember now why I stopped again but again I must resume. I’m still breathing and I’ll still need to eat today so I must keep going. Must keep finding some way to make money that doesn’t require me to sacrifice my dignity so I can eat and sleep comfortably. Must keep picking and choosing when I can safely show all my big emotions and to whom and when. Must keep writing things down, examining myself and my choices and habits until I leave this waterball roller coaster because they haven’t lied when they said you can learn something new every day.
I worry about my aloneness but it isn’t actual- I’m surrounded by other people all the time. One can’t be alive on this earth and be completely alone- even in solitary confinement there is still a guard. A System. Others.
What will I do with my last 71 days?
Today I am starting over once more and quite frankly, if you don’t cry at the drop of a hat you probably won’t and haven’t ever understood me. To miss me is to know me, and I’m still after over 590 plus months of life, figuring myself out.
The Transition is happening- and I have no control over it, so bring on the tissues…