Weathering the Perfect (Shit) Storm

The necklace. 'Nuff said.

The necklace. ‘Nuff said.

It’s after 5 a.m., and I have yet to go to bed.

Fuck.

In less than 5 hours, I have to attend a hearing at justice court for Brick 2.0.

Fuck.

Shortly after that, my older two children return from Brick 1.0’s home, an every-other-week ritual typically served up with outbursts of emotion and a side order of chaos as they nobly attempt some crazy figurative Double Dutch routine between the parallel lines characterizing our parallel parenting homes.

Fuck.

Last week, Brick 2.0 sent me a request to communicate from the jail. Keep in mind, I have not spoken a single word to him since he was hauled away by the Po-Po Posse on Aug. 9 — though I did have to hear his voice on the day of our divorce hearing, which was one of the most unsettling experiences of my life to date.

Fuck.

Brick 1.0 took an opportunity last week to publicly circumvent my parental authority and branded me, in no uncertain terms, as the most horrible and horrific of horrible and horrific mothers. In writing.

Fuck.

My baby has a 101-degree fever, a hacking cough, is wheezing and lethargic. And there are unconfirmed cases of measles in my town. Plus rampant flu.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

(Though, I must add, she is vaccinated for both. So let’s subtract one “Fuck” and replace it with a “Yay me???”)

So, yeah. I don’t mean to complain. I truly don’t. I have worked so hard to keep a positive outlook, to focus on my family and move us swiftly along that path toward this magical destination called “Healing,” to once again reinvent in the face of adversity, heartbreak and unfathomable betrayal.

But that magical land of Healing right now seems about as far away as Pluto.

The planetoid. Not the dog. Just to clarify.

Anyhow, did anyone read “The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck” by that dude named Mark Manson? There’s a link on my Facebook page, if you’re so inclined.

And actually, that’s a rhetorical question; because for some perplexing reason, MANY of you shared links with me via Facebook, Twitter, email or carrier-fucking-pigeon to make sure I saw it.

I was touched, really. Because, if I really think about it, I guess I can assume you all shared it with me primarily for the reason that in his post, he uses my favorite word, like, 127 times, which probably sets a record for “greatest number of fucks to which the blogosphere has ever been exposed.”

Seriously. I’m quite sure that’s a category in the Guinness Book.

Anyhow, I definitely appreciated your outreach efforts.

But the message of the post was perplexing.

To wit:

“The point is, most of us struggle throughout our lives by giving too many fucks in situations where fucks do not deserve to be given. We give a fuck about the rude gas station attendant who gave us too many nickels. We give a fuck when a show we liked was canceled on TV. We give a fuck when our coworkers don’t bother asking us about our awesome weekend. We give a fuck when it’s raining and we were supposed to go jogging in the morning.

Fucks given everywhere. Strewn about like seeds in mother-fucking spring time. And for what purpose? For what reason? Convenience? Easy comforts? A pat on the fucking back maybe?

This is the problem, my friend.

Because when we give too many fucks, when we choose to give a fuck about everything, then we feel as though we are perpetually entitled to feel comfortable and happy at all times, that’s when life fucks us.”

To borrow a line from Mr. Manson:

This is the problem, my friend.

Because to all that, I say, “Whateverthefuck.”

I’m living proof that life can fuck you over even if you don’t give needless fucks.

I give only the most needed of needed fucks. The required ones. Of the obligatory variety. When completely necessary.

Which right now, equates roughly to every other fucking word in this fucking post.

Life doesn’t seem to be saving the fucking over for the needless fucks. Sorry, Mr. Manson. Your premise is wonky.

However, my fuck-friendly faux-friend, you almost redeemed yourself with the following:

“Developing the ability to control and manage the fucks you give is the essence of strength and integrity. We must craft and hone our lack of fuckery over the course of years and decades. Like a fine wine, our fucks must age into a fine vintage, only uncorked and given on the most special fucking occasions.”

So perhaps this is just it. This is the most special of fucking occasions, like if New Year’s Eve and Warren Harding’s birthday and National Plan Your Epitaph Day and the day you first discovered Krispy Kreme Doughnuts all happened at the SAME FUCKING TIME.

So cheers to us all! Join me, please, in raising a toast in fucking solidarity. And while you’re at it, as you’re going about your Monday business today, send a little positive juju my way. Just a whisper. A hint, really.

And maybe, while you’re at it, you can leave a comment below and just say something funny. Or sweet. Or odd. Or nonsensical. Or just plain neutral.

Just nothing fucked up, please.

Because: Fuck

And, just FYI: National Plan Your Epitaph Day is April 6. Not even kidding.

Better start planning.

 

Posted in Mikalee Byerman, My (forced) reinvention, My bat-shit crazy divorce | Tagged , , , , , , , | 22 Comments