Ruined Meals

Of course I misspeak — celebrity names, band names, the occasional place wherein time becomes a vague concept… but sweet ladybird lord, how can I know anymore which emotions are mine and are these feelings valid? I’ve learned that if I can’t move or get up after a fall, I will wail. I am not adept with fury. I’m likely to genuinely cry during a touching television special. Politics? My god. And I sob every time Hamilton ends.

Every. Time.

I say inappropriate things without intention, breach uncomfortable social norms without thought and everything will sound sound grosser than intended. I have ruined meals.

Every time I’ve… let’s just go with “ruined meals”… every time I’ve ruined a meal, the situation will play itself over and over as I fall asleep, flanked by similar situations as far back as high school. Horrified, uncomfortable faces of people for whom I care have become a familiar nightlight. Like the flame of a candle getting ahead of itself and setting that dangling fern ablaze.

Feeling feelings is okay – the trick is knowing from whence the feeling arose, questioning its circumstance, and either apologizing or making peace with it. Feeling is always easier than doing. I am not brilliant to know this, but my last therapist did call me a unicorn and gave me the horn which proves it. I’ve been assured that I am nice, but

if I’ve ever ruined your dinner, I sincerely apologize.

As half of this slippery slope, I have to forgive myself. I need to think about what I say before it emerges with unpredictable tone into a room full of strangers. I suppose I should forgive myself because of brain lesions ‘n all, but, well…

[insert dirty joke]

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