Angry Diatribes and Self Inflicted Injuries

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The husband is on his way to pick the kids up for Easter.  We haven’t really talked since my birthday and that was before I started blogging.  I can’t stop the million and four mean things I should have said that run through my mind.  I start an internal chant of, “I forgive him,” but the rage pushes through because I can’t forget how he burned that bridge with me still on it.

I love my boys.  I love their hugs.  I love their silliness.  I see their fear and the uncertainty they live in.  My son spilled his drink while pouring it.  Sugar free fruit punch splattered, then pooled on the countertop and he began to attack himself over the accident.  He vocalized his frustration with himself.  He started to hit his head.  I stopped him.  I hugged him.  I told him it was a little spill and when was the last time I freaked out on a little spill?  On the other hand, actively making messes while I am actively cleaning up will piss me off.  He smiled at that and hugged me back, then I cleaned up the mess because it took two seconds and a flowing motion from what I was already in the middle of. It’s the next morning and I feel I need to be gentle with myself for nurturing the responsibility of the mess away from him.

There was a chance I wanted to take that I didn’t, and those thoughts still haunt me.  I know the timing is wrong because I am still angry with my husband that I am still legally married to.  I believe there are chapters in my life on hold, waiting to be woven into the narrative. I know that in time everything falls into place in the best possible way.

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Today I will be gentle with myself.  I will love my quirky ideals and accept my anger as a valid feeling before I release it.  I will play with my hair and spackle on makeup because I owe myself the focus and I may meet my next adventure later tonight. Then I’m putting on jeans because that adventure usually lies along Pacific Coast Highway. I hear good things about Zuma Beach and I haven’t been there yet.

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