Broken Thing
Yesterday,
I was sure she was dead.
When the phone rang
and I ran to get it
leaving my mat in the middle of yoga class,
I expected to hear someone from the hospital tell me,
“we’re sorry.”
Instead, it was just a pre-recording about credit card debt
from Washington.
I immediately hung up
and returned to my downward dog.
When I got home,
I called and learned my mother was doing fine,
much better than yesterday.
I started crying.
Not because my mother was doing better,
but rather because
my mind had tricked me,
again.
I had succumbed to the little voice in my head that always tells me
terror is true.
I hate that voice.
It sounds so real.
I always believe it.
I always fall for it.
Like the magician pulling the coin out of someone’s ear,
or the rabbit out of the hat,
no matter how many times I’ve seen the trick, I still don’t know how it’s done.
It is the same voice that tells me
my lover is having an affair,
or that he’s been killed in a car accident when I can’t reach him.
Or that the little mole on my back is Cancer,
or that I’m going blind,
or that I’m destined to be poor.
It is the one that keeps me so tied up in worry,
that I wake up panicked.
But yesterday afternoon,
after sitting and crying and realizing I had been tricked once more,
I told myself, “enough.”
I told myself I was through listening to that little demon
and that I had other things to do.
And that
that was no longer going to be
me.
I do not need to be like the dog
chasing its tail round and round trying to catch it.
No,
I am through taking a bath in flames.
I am through being
this thing,
this worried,
broken thing.
No comments:
Post a Comment