trancejen's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I sat outside on the porch smoking a cigarette and drinking a glass of iced tea, and I was happy to note that we've slid into the just-spring weather that I love, that slightly cool could-go-either-way breeziness that makes all the Midwestern snow worthwhile. I thought for a while about how my life is nowhere near where I want it to be. I'm not deep in the heart of the city where I long to live, I'm broke, I'm not in the greatest shape of my life (which makes me insane), I'm generally a neurotic mess, I can't find a man that understands me, and my problems with my health and "the system" get me down on an hourly basis. Even so, I always have a tiny seedling of optimism that just won't quit, and last night I scoffed about that to a friend. I told her that my dipshit Pollyanna optimism was far better suited to a five-year-old. You have to admit, I have had kind of a shitty track record during the past few years. This ain't Bridget Jones. I sat on my Astro-Turf-ed porch and thought about how easy it would be just give up, to go gently into that good night and give the world a big, fat Fuck You, because after all, either the world or me myself has fucked me royally. It's not like I never think about it. Insurance money and all. Suicide comes quickly to mind when you're staring at the walls of a cell that you just can't wiggle your way out of. Plus it's not like I wasn't half a head case to begin with. Then I thought about how cheap a copout that was, and how horrible, and how I think of it fleetingly just like I think about nine million other things during the course of my day. It suddenly hit me that I will never do it, because I really do believe that things will turn around. I really do believe that somewhere exists a miracle or a second chance or an act of whatever God there may be, and I believe that one day it will come soaring my way. I have always believed that, although it never seeped into my conscious thought until this evening. My face is so accustomed to my jaded and bitter mask that I rarely take the damn thing off long enough to breathe deeply. I've been scared shitless of my own mind, because I always assumed that there would be a snapping point in which I would completely lose my shit and wind up either in a rubber room or a bodybag. The thought was haunting. What would be the straw to break my back? When would I finally snap off? I considered this, and then I came to the conclusion that there is no what or when that will level me. Unless something ever happens to my child (knock wood, spit on the ground, and cross your fingers and toes), I will be OK. Tonight I guess I realized that while I'm no bastion of strength right now, I'm at least stronger than that, and it made me feel damn good. I will bend, but I cannot break. I will not break. I'm not super-happy-carefree but I'm hopeful, and tonight that makes me feel wonderful.
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