Would it not be wonderful to drive up to a mythical pump and fill your “tank,” aka spirit, with lovely truths of self-esteem and worthiness and sweet joy?

Apparently I was not doing the safety maintenance on my spirit because my tank overflowed with bitterness, anger, and ah damn. Was I aware of the good leaking out and being replaced with the pain of anger and hopelessness? No. I thought I was being The Brave One and it was my duty (!) to allow myself to get drawn into the drama when my sisters played the guilt card…family ties need to be severed, grieved over, then released to the wind. Maybe it will knock them on their butts when that wind ever so gently brushes them with the realization I took back my power.

It made me wonder how many other times I’ve pulled up to a pump and said, “I’ll take some hurt, please. Don’t top ‘er off; fill me so I’ll overflow with with rage.” Rage…shivery word to me…an itty-bitty spark will, and has, created an inferno. Who gets burned? Everyone.

It occurred to me that I’ve most likely done this pumping a bazillion times…at least. When you are my age, you’ve wasted a lot of hard-won peace by pulling up to the wrong pump.

My vision is of two pumps. One is casual, rather plain. The other has whistles, bells, clowns making balloon babies, a raffle for a free session with a shrink of your choosing, and a dippy dog to put on your dashboard…This is the one I chose.

The plain one is full of on-no-you-don’t, if you even bother to take  stock of the situation and usually you don’t bother. But there are times when you are vulnerable, tired, whatever excuse you use this time, and you go roaring up to the fancy pump and scream, “NOW! DAMMIT!!   FILL ME UP!”  and the little bells/whistles turn into grudges given new life, and the clown smirks ’cause it reeled you in, ya won the raffle but the session wasn’t free, and the dog peed all over your dashboard.

Did I get bored with feeling good? Was I looking for attention? Is there more satisfaction going through the day carrying a sack of garbage from the past??….apparently so, transparently so.

How easily I slid into wearing the black shawl, ashes rubbed on my face, crying out, “Mea…ah, the hell with that description. I let myself pirouette into the hood again, Victim Hood.

Remember HALT and all your rescue techniques…do it half-butt and ya got problems. It used to be that I seldom did anything half-assed. Age? Partly.

It may be that I need to change some things. If the old ways aren’t maintaining my spirit in a healthy and solid way…well, a deep subject…well, I’d best start the search for different ways of coping. God, I’m so damn lazy! I thought I had these things down pat, wherein lies the problems obnoxiously naked in their say-what?! You be too old to start over, stay in passive land and ree lllaaaxx.

wonder if having a stud muffin massage me contributes to my sense of well-being?