I am a walking collection of coping mechanisms.
We all are. Not one of us gets through life in a inviolate state.
It just seems that way as we watch the social media parade and we mistake life representations for life. That’s ridiculous when you think about it, like mistaking reality tv for reality. Most forms of media are some kind of parade. Big noises, shiny trumpets, flags waving.
At home and in our lives is where we do the real work, the hard work, where we grit our teeth and the trombone sits in its black case in the garage, unused and out of tune.
But that’s okay.
The good thing about being a walking collection of coping mechanisms? It means we learned to cope.
We learned to take what worked for us and keep it, while throwing away that which did not serve. (I hope you did this. And if not? Do it now. The freedom you feel will become snowflakes on your tongue – addictive, evaporating, as your mouth stays open for more.)
Coping is what survivors do. And you, darling, are a survivor. You’re still here, aren’t you?
No one will give you a badge or hold a parade. But you can hear the band playing if you listen closely, very closely, inside you. Oh, that band is playing. Now come on, darling, let’s dance.