I’m sitting in the McDonalds on State Street in Geneva. Because Egg McMuffins.
This is also the place where Maggie’s mom and I told Maggie that we were getting divorced. It was the most painful conversation I’ve ever had. The most painful day ever. Watching her little nine year old face panic as the conversation unfolded.
It wasn’t a long conversation but it lasted forever to me.
A therapist said to do it in public so the hurt would live outside the home. Sometimes breakups really better are in public. Sometimes it’s the better way out.
And as we were driving back home, the three of us, I thought to myself, “I’m never going to that fucking place again.”
But here I am. Cuppa years later.
Because one of the best things I learned was to “give it some time.”
For as long as it takes. Don’t make up your mind. Just put it down. Don’t rush healing. Don’t rush the feeling. Let the pain fade. It will if we don’t force its end.
And then when you’re walking down the stairs you say “fuck those guys” but there are no guys there?
And then when you’re standing in the kitchen getting your lunch ready you see a teeny purple flower on the floor and say “get the fuck out of here” and kick it under the stove?
And then Alexa plays Kiss Me Deadly and then you think to yourself “Why does Ozzy get to hold heaven in the palm of his hand? Fuck that.”
And then when you’re driving to work your phone vibrates in your pocket so you pull it out and see it’s an email from Amazon Prime Video. They’re canceling your Comic-Con HQ Subscription because the channel is no longer available. And then you say “I don’t give a fuck about that. I never did.”
And then when you’re sitting at your work desk pondering all the fucks you’ve said before 9AM this very morning, you remember that not all the stories end with a spiritual revelation.
God, take me where you want me to go, teach me what you want me to learn, let your will override mine. Keep me on the spiritual path, help me love the other humans.
It’s usually a variation of that anyway. Sometimes I say them before I leave the house. Sometimes I say them when I’m driving to work. Some days I mean every word and other days I’m just mouthing the letters.
Some days I don’t say them at all.
But it’s simple. I’m not Saint Francis over here. And most importantly, they remind me that I’m not El Presidente.