Self-blame was out in force last night and this morning, as I lay sleepless in Mr. Man’s bed after trying to help a friend of a friend process the fact that his girlfriend was just committed. Telling him about committing my husband and hearing him take to heart the accusations she made in the midst of despair brought it all back. I told Mr. Man that “every mistake I’ve ever made is ganging up on me.” I’ve gotten about an hour of sleep and am exhausted both physically and emotionally. I planned to come into work at noon and try to get some sleep but then remembered a few meetings and was here at 9:30am. I think I’ll leave early. I’m teary and not much good to anyone.

I did fairly well fighting off the blame, given the circumstances, mostly by chanting, “Don’t do this, Tiisme. Don’t do this” to myself and curling up into a tight ball next to Mr. Man’s comforting warmth. I woke him with my tossing and tears and he was sweetness itself, holding me close and telling me that I was loving, caring, strong, and a good friend, that I had made the decisions that I had to make and that although he hadn’t known me then he has no doubt that I made them with love and kindness in my heart. I’m playing my Om Nama Shivaya chant at work and that’s helping damp down the mean voices in my head. What helped most was imagining how sad it would make me if I were to read that one of my dear friends here was beating herself up the way in which I was tempted to do.

The hardest part of this particular and temporary trial is realizing anew just how merciless I am with myself. If I am not continually growing and bettering myself – physically, emotionally, intellectually, creatively and spiritually – then I feel that I’ve relinquished the right to enjoy anything, almost as if I have to earn the right to be alive every single day. Where did I pick up this attitude? I would tell a friend who felt this way that she was a gift to life, that she is vitally important and a joy to her friends. Why is it so difficult for me to see myself this way? This bears serious investigation.

I am cold and tired and sad and vulnerable and strong. Sometimes that last adjective seems the cruelest. At times like these I feel like a much abused marionette under the control of a relentless puppeteer named Strength. Wouldn’t it be kinder to collapse into a mass of limbs and strings? Perhaps this afternoon I’ll do just that. It’s what I would tell my friend.