On the surface, Monday was perfect – sunny, but not too hot. An ordinary workday. And yet, I felt…mysteriously enraged. All day long, this intense, seemingly sourceless rage simmered as I tried to focus on the work at hand. It wasn’t until late afternoon. that I realized my shirt was closing in on my ribcage like a medieval abattoir, but the pain was not intense enough to notice on a conscious level. I spent the day squelching the urge to hurl grenades out my window into Copley Square, but I had no idea what was happening.
“There’s a kind of freedom in being completely screwed… because you know things can’t get any worse.” ~Clark Kellogg (Matthew Broderick), in The Freshman.
My life looks a little tragic, today, but not in an interesting or romantic way. I’m not likely to get a write-up in the paper any time soon (“Hero Woman Impales Self on Fencepost While Pulling Toddlers from Burning Building”). I’m also not living with poverty or illness or any number of horrible problems that other unlucky souls are forced to contend with. In this time and place, on this planet, I am one of the lucky ones.
*There, that’s my obligatory humble preamble. Everything that follows will be pure navel-gazing, whining, and duck-face selfies with cocktails.
My tragedy is pretty dull, though I have been chucked through an industrial-sized emotional shredder over the last ten years. The short version: Continue reading