Thoughts, Feelings, Words, Blessings, Colonics

Have to write something or I’ll burst. It’s just amazing how things change from day to day. Yesterday I had a jumble of emotions and could hardly keep them in check. Thank heaven I had colonics yesterday, or it all would’ve been backed up to my ribcage.

Speaking of colonics, I do have a problem with my system (stress, medication, age, genetics, stress, stress, anxiety, stress) so every once in a while I get cleaned out. I skipped a few years but recently found the new location of “my lady.” The route there takes me past my daughter’s apartment complex so I kind of eyeball it as I drive by. Yesterday, smack in the middle of the day—a workday—I saw her car parked there. (Don’t judge me for being out at this time of day; it was my lunch hour.) I immediately jumped to conclusions when I saw it—she was fired, she quit, she was in her place high as a kite, she was face-down dead from suicide or an overdose. What I’m saying is, I freaked. Remember my history with this daughter . . .

I couldn’t stop myself: I texted her. I asked why she was home, but long story short, I did have an accusatory tone, which she doesn’t react well to. All she told me was she took PTO and that if she were fired or she quit, she would’ve told me. So there I am, stressed to the max, and have to endure my colonic appointment. One of the key things you must do during one of these is RELAX. You can imagine how unrelaxed I was. My middle section was in a knot so I had to be honest about my condition. The practitioner happens to be an older woman who’s a very devout Catholic, and while she doesn’t have any children (that I know of—I don’t pry), she encouraged me to pray and read psalms to help cope with the tense relationship I have with my daughter. I don’t believe in God anymore, but I respect that prayer works for some people, so I asked her to pray on my behalf. She said, Well, you’re the mother—it’s better coming from you. I suppose, but who would I be praying to?

After my appointment, which took more than an hour, I put in a call to my daughter; I literally couldn’t take the silence after the text-lashing I got. Naturally she didn’t answer, but by some miracle, she called me back. Her issue was stress and depression (chip off the old block, I suppose)—in particular about her job. It’s been overwhelming her and, even though she’s a valued employee, she doesn’t feel recognized or heard. It took her a few minutes to begin talking, but once she did, she probably was pleasantly surprised at how empathetic I was and what I had to offer. We spoke like adults, like grown-ups, like big people. IT WAS NORMAL. 

Despite my fears for her and my assumptions, my interactions with her are respectful of her adult age rather than meddling motherful. I don’t agree with her choices most of the time, but since she’s not doing anything illegal or dangerous, I leave her alone most of the time. I have opinions and they leak out every once in a while, but that’s it. No matter what happens between us, I’m there and would still stand in front of a speeding bus to save her life.

Our conversation ended well and I believe she felt supported and clearer about moving on. She is taking off an additional day, and will be back at work to do the best she can to face and deal with the stressors.

I, on the other hand, had a big fight with my husband that evening. We used to argue when we were younger, but don’t much anymore, so this was out of left field. I started it—I guess I was not finished being worked up with my daughter—and all my stress unleased. Then, having plenty of stress himself, hubby unleashed his tirade as well. I must give him compliments on how many complaints he can list in one session and his lung capacity for yelling. I can take credit for crying like an idiot from frustration and disappointment. Luckily for us, we got it all out and were back to normal by bedtime. We heard each other, apologized, and slept the best we could.

My daughter actually texted me this morning to ask how I was doing. To me, that’s monumental.