The only thing left to do is quit before they fire me. I need to keep my sanity and ego
Sara, my therapist, suggested I ask my sadness to step aside for the five hours I’m at work each day. I could designate a specific time of five to ten minutes to be sad at home, to feel the sorrow and losses, so the little traumatized girl inside me is soothed. Then at work, sad will let me be.
I can’t do it. It’s much too hard.
I try something else. I gulp down the smoothie my husband blended with coconut and almonds. There’s no reprieve in my emotional system. I sit and stare at the Fun Ball I need to describe. What am I going to write? That it’s fun, fun in the sun? My eyes bulge as they hold in the tears. I didn’t have fun on this day some decades ago, when I was 13 years old.
I’m 13. Someone is doing things. To me. After school, every couple of days as I go to help out with their kids. Each time afterward, I run home, tripping over roses in the garden to get to my home’s front door. To safety.
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