The Second Guess

So I had this entire post all planned in my head. It was because this morning I was talking with some co-workers (ha! that sounds so "Office Space." We don't call each other co-workers, but for time and clarity's sake, I'm sticking with it.) and one is a mother and she was telling a funny story about her 18 year old daughter calling her very upset and blaming her for all that was going wrong, of which, of course, the mother had absolutely no control (ie it was raining really hard). So we all laughed and then I had a flash of the last time I ever went to my mom for help. Not that I could ever really go to my mom for help, with anything, especially with being upset, but I remember the last time I tried.

It was awful. I dared to ask her for a hug. Really. That's the story. I mean, of course I could go on for much too long discussing all the ins and outs of it, but I went to her and asked for a hug. The combination of shock, fear and disgust on her face to see me almost-crying and asking for a hug made me try to explain where I was coming from. That didn't really work. As is the usual with my mom, I ended up just trying to get away. How dare a 17 year old get scared and ask her mom for help. I went back to room and cried on my own. That felt better. After five or ten minutes she came in and told me all the reasons why I shouldn't have been feeling what I felt. Really, how dare I try to have emotion. Especially around my mom.

But then when I got here to write out the whole story, of which I clearly did write a good portion, I felt so overly melodramatic. Because what's the fucking point of coming here and talking about that shit?

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And then a lot of people came into the office and I got distracted and now I have to go to a staff meeting. It's cool to be unfinished. It's like me and my emotional well being. Unfinished.