Sometimes, Stephen King wrote in his novel "Dolores Claiborne", a wickedly good tale of child molestation, murder and bitterly dysfunctional relationships, Being a bitch is all a woman has to hold onto.
Amen, I remember thinking when I first read it. The novel became and remains my favorite piece of his writing. It crystallized a simple but easily missed fact of life - not all monsters come from the undead - some are born of reality and not pure imagination.
Underneath the initial panic and desperation of being fired - for the first time in my working life - I stumbled across an anger embedded so deeply I didn't even know it was there and discovered my inner bitch was alive, well, and thriving. For the first couple of days, I was too fearful to see it, not able to sleep or eat or think clearly enough to make a coherent sentence. Despite trying to blot it out, the termination scene kept playing and replaying in my head. There were knots in my belly, an uncomfortable tightness in my chest, a nauseated feeling like sea sickness that wouldn't give an inch stayed with me and grew more powerful with each passing hour. The fact that it did not come as a surprise didn't help. Knowing I'd contributed to my professional demise didn't help. Kneeling in front of the toilet and repeatedly shoving my fingers down my throat didn't help. The knots got thicker and the tightness more constricting until all I could hear was the sound of my heart beating too fast. I couldn't walk it off, sleep it away or sick it up.
Age is no longer an ally when you reach your senior years. It haunts you as does every poor choice and bad judgement, every failure to save or plan or prepare. The reality is that one day you wake up out of work, with no insurance, no savings, no prospects, eight animals to support and very little hope. I'd had plans to work for another four or five years, pay off the credit cards in another few months, and then seriously begin to put back all that social security money I wouldn't be spending. It was a good plan - although it had some risks - but it might've worked. It wouldn't have meant a life of luxury, perhaps not even a life of ease, but it might've been manageable. At least I'd thought so.
Life, unfortunately, has a way of delivering ugly surprises.
It's not easy to face down your own faults. I prefer to remember the undeserved reprimands, the vague threats, the temper tantrums, the dirty jokes and the questionable ethics. It eases my mind. It's time to face the facts that I'm mentally and emotionally whipped, no longer capable or even willing to give it the best I've got.
A week later, I've decided some things and the sea sickness has - mostly - passed although it twinges every now and again, to remind me of its power, I suppose. There doesn't seem much point to a new plan, easier to try to return to one day at a time and survive as gracefully as I can. The bitch I'd thought was dead and gone is still alive and kicking. She may very well be all that's left and she's holding on with a death grip.
Underneath the initial panic and desperation of being fired - for the first time in my working life - I stumbled across an anger embedded so deeply I didn't even know it was there and discovered my inner bitch was alive, well, and thriving. For the first couple of days, I was too fearful to see it, not able to sleep or eat or think clearly enough to make a coherent sentence. Despite trying to blot it out, the termination scene kept playing and replaying in my head. There were knots in my belly, an uncomfortable tightness in my chest, a nauseated feeling like sea sickness that wouldn't give an inch stayed with me and grew more powerful with each passing hour. The fact that it did not come as a surprise didn't help. Knowing I'd contributed to my professional demise didn't help. Kneeling in front of the toilet and repeatedly shoving my fingers down my throat didn't help. The knots got thicker and the tightness more constricting until all I could hear was the sound of my heart beating too fast. I couldn't walk it off, sleep it away or sick it up.
Age is no longer an ally when you reach your senior years. It haunts you as does every poor choice and bad judgement, every failure to save or plan or prepare. The reality is that one day you wake up out of work, with no insurance, no savings, no prospects, eight animals to support and very little hope. I'd had plans to work for another four or five years, pay off the credit cards in another few months, and then seriously begin to put back all that social security money I wouldn't be spending. It was a good plan - although it had some risks - but it might've worked. It wouldn't have meant a life of luxury, perhaps not even a life of ease, but it might've been manageable. At least I'd thought so.
Life, unfortunately, has a way of delivering ugly surprises.
It's not easy to face down your own faults. I prefer to remember the undeserved reprimands, the vague threats, the temper tantrums, the dirty jokes and the questionable ethics. It eases my mind. It's time to face the facts that I'm mentally and emotionally whipped, no longer capable or even willing to give it the best I've got.
A week later, I've decided some things and the sea sickness has - mostly - passed although it twinges every now and again, to remind me of its power, I suppose. There doesn't seem much point to a new plan, easier to try to return to one day at a time and survive as gracefully as I can. The bitch I'd thought was dead and gone is still alive and kicking. She may very well be all that's left and she's holding on with a death grip.
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