Cover Photo: Cracked Glass by Emily Metcalf

Cracked Glass

Last night I smashed a glass bottle on the Boos Block

There are times when it is important to just sit back, to observe, to feel, and to let time flow. Now is one of those times. In these times I allow for myself, I often write.

I come from a family of busy people. There are just four of us, in the original nuclear group. My sister, 40, me 38, my mother 70, and my father 75. My sister made one offspring recently with her husband of about five years. Other than that it is just me and my mate. I have animals, four furry creatures, and they keep me grounded. Yet there are times when I need an increased amount of grounding and now is one of those times. I have been symptomatic, emotional, reverting to old fears. I have been fighting with my husband. I am sorry for that. Last night I smashed a glass bottle on the Boos Block. What for? Am I nuts... well yes. I won't smash a glass bottle ever again, immediately I was taken aback by how small the shards were. Everywhere. It took place after I crumpled some old cards in frustration during a cribbage game. Our second attempt at a game that day. And it was a good day. Quaker meeting in the morning, a walk in the afternoon. But we were having trouble getting around a conversation. We couldn't ground and get to the root issue. It just kept going round and round, back and forth, in a negatively stimulating cycle of not getting each other's meaning, of not resonating with each other, of just plain getting nowhere. Then I hit my limit. I crumbled some cards in my hands and threw them at him. I got up and smashed the bottle.

This is not extremely rare behavior for me. There have been times in our past, stretching two decades now, where I have been unstable, reeked much havoc and was quite destructive. Breaking glass seems to be the pinnacle of release. It is messy to clean up. But somewhere deep in my subconscious this represents something. The other night I stopped myself after slamming my hands against the refrigerator and kitchen cabinets. Perhaps because I could feel the pain. I stopped. Usually losing such control does not last long. It is my version of screaming, or making it all stop. And Steve is very understanding, though it must be traumatizing. It borders on abusive, not just to myself, but to him. I have had to accept this over the years, that I am the abusive one in the relationship. Strange. Being the woman. But it is true. At times he pushes me to this place of breaking though. I break inside, I must turn it out, manifest it so it does not consume me, hence the broken glass and the great metaphor.

Today I need to not just go out into the world and do things. Even if it is quality, even if it is service. I want to be home, listening to Vangelis, writing. I need to exist in loving company with my husband. I need to let him know that I love him, that I am there for him, that I am not going to leave him.

I must not abandon myself in a time of need either. My soft tendrils need healing. I become fierce, abusive even because I am fragile, sensitive. Right now things are unpleasant, rough, precarious. I have accepted this life, I love this life. I need to in all of its colors, violence and peace. Right now I feel peace and I am savoring it.

Sometime hopefully in Fall/Winter of 2017 my book Glass Slippers - A Journey of Mental Illness, will be available on Amazon and bookshops in the San Juan Islands. I am currently working on my second book Memiorish, which may be out in 2018. I write on my blog www.welcometothegrit.squarespace.com. Thanks for reading!