What More Can I Ask For?

Before I proceed with this diary entry––a stream-of-consciousness exposé, as per uje––I have a short clip to share with you. I recorded it last night; however, a week ago, I learned I have a new reader, and unfortunately, she's being misled into believing I am rapping blasphemy!

As I begin this entry, it's 9:02 p.m., and my six-year-old and I are sharing the L-shape sectional sofa that Josh and I still don't fully own, but we joke about splitting in half when we finally make this split; when is that happening again? No, I'm asking. I don't fucking know anymore. One minute, it's hot––too hot for anyone's good. Then, cold. Freezing ass cold. 

Shivering. 

Sweating. 

Smiling. 

Crying. 

Okay, I promise I won't mention it again today. Rinse. Repeat. I promise I won't mention it again today, and I mean it this time. Are you laughing? Your wife doesn't want you holed up in the bathroom that you continue to share with her despite all this, sending love notes to your girlfriend via text message, and you find it funny? Are you even human?

So anyway, as I was saying, it's just the boy and me in the house beside two sleeping cats. It's a quarter after nine, and his supple blonde-lashed eyelids are sagging as he yawns. Now, I'm yawning. We're on our fourth repeat of John Prine and Iris DeMent doing In Spite of Ourselves. It's the kid's flavor-of-the-week jam, and I'm not sure whether it's the part when Iris sings, "He's got more balls than a big brass monkey," or when she mentions sniffing undies, but he's hooked and, like his mama, he keeps one on repeat until he moves onto the next. I don't know whether this should make me laugh or cry. I reckon he could have worse taste in music.

Today is Day 15 of sobriety. I don't feel great, but I feel good. I am hopeful. Dare I say, happy? I shouldn't say that. I'm not particularly happy after all, but I am grateful. Living in gratitude, specifically. It's helping. My mom says I need more therapy. I tell her I am therapy. I mean this lightheartedly. I and psycho-therapy go way back; old friends, chums, pals. On good days, I think of myself as a reincarnation of Allan Watts and Bill Wilson. On other days, I practice humility; the last fifteen days have been humble-full and brutiful (thanks for that one, Glennon.)

I watched the film Stutz yesterday. Immediately, I became inspired to grow. To keep growing. Never stop growing. There's more to life than this, more to love than that, more to this world than the obvious and the understood. Yet, within moments of starting the film, I felt a stillness come over me. I pictured icicles dripping, melting, breaking from their place––a crystalline descent from the gutter on the roof of a house on which I've never laid eyes. 

Today, I joked with myself about one day having an online dating profile (I would NEVER actually do this, mark my words!) and how my tagline or whatever would be: INFJ, Gemini, Single Mom––all the boys would scatter. The men likely would not run, though, and some say I should start entertaining more of those rather than their younger, stupider counterparts. But, alas, the heart wants what the heart wants. One day I want my husband. The next day I want to find out what's on the other side of "us." 

There has to be more to life than this. I said that already, but it bears repeating.

Earlier tonight, my little boy asked:

"Mom, is badass a bad word?

"Depends on who you say it to." I told him.

"I'll just say it to you because you're the only badass I know."

While I don't feel like much of one right now, kid, I appreciate the mention.

I'd still be grateful if all I had left in this world were this big little human I grew in my belly. If only for that, I would live in gratitude forever.

What more can I ask for?