When Getting out of Bed Deserves a Medal

Today I woke up miserably depressed over my divorce, over fear of bankruptcy and mounting debt, over loneliness, and over the dread of the day. That evil invisible hand was squeezing my heart, I cried and wondered how one body could produce so many tears. It was that crying where your lungs try to stop it because they are at their wits’ end of  your overworking sobs, and you take a deep breath and try to will it away, but it won’t go away and so the tears start coming again and here you go.  I did not even want to write about this on this blog. (Which, by the way, is a tiny blog, but the only reason I started it was that if I could help just one person by reading that she was not alone in her struggles, it would be worth it.).

I have started my own business (what the fuck would you do that for after you just got separated was the usual question, and my usual answer was “well because I just am.”) Not much logic behind many decisions made while going through a divorce. Some days I wake up excited with the feeling I will conquer the world, other days (like today), I just want to pick up the phone and call my husband and ask him to fix everything (he won’t, but there we go again with that lack of logic). And everyone around me is naturally, and understandably, sick to death of my shit and my whines and my self-absorption.

So I stayed in bed and cried. Owning your own business means you can do that, it also means you ain’t getting any closer to those goals you set forth in some magical mission statement you wrote down and lost. But between the hurt, and the apathy that really was trying to creep through and help me out and finally surfaced, I could not get out of bed.

Until now. My eyes are swollen. It is after 12pm. But these days, perfectionism and impossibly high standards have had to take a back seat to “I am just trying to keep my head above water.” So I will go into work, with my eyes swollen, and I will do what I can do.

When a guy points out your faults.

So guess what. I have a lot of faults. I talk too much. I think too much. I’m messy. I can’t cook. I have a temper. All good topics for introspection and maybe for my therapist.

But guess what ladies? We are well-aware of every imperfection we have. Which means we don’t need a man telling us what they are. Husband, boyfriend, friend with benefits, UPS delivery guy, doesn’t matter.

A lot of guys are good at this, because it lets their shitty behavior off the hook . They know we are so hard on ourselves as it is, and they know that exposing our inner critic means nothing is their fault. And if y’all are like me, you’re so used to that self-loathing of imperfection that you fall right into the trap.

“Yep, he’s right, if I wasn’t so indecisive we would have picked a better vacation spot.”

“I cannot blame him for being annoyed with me bugging him during the football game, he’s had a long week (not as long as mine but I digress), and I’m so bad at nagging.”

Maybe it’s time we revolt against this. Hey, why not even agree with them? “Honey you’re right, this IS all my fault” and then walk away, with peace in the deep truth we don’t cause men’s problems. And then we keep on doing whatever the fuck we were doing to annoy them. Because the other option, and I’ve been there, is to begin to believe their lies. And eventually you are holding yourself responsible for everything that goes wrong. With everyone.

So today I pledge to embrace my flaws, and to pinch that fat on the back of my arm (that shit hurts!) every time I believe the negative shit a man blames me for. I pledge to push out of my mind the things he says every time he convinces me that my imperfections have somehow caused his or the world’s problems. Because let’s be honest, how many women start wars and threaten nuclear bonding?