About this whole grumpy thing…

So, I’m grumpy.  Not just the, “I’m having a bad Tuesday and need coffee, a cuddle, and a game of Quirkle,” sort of grumpy, but the, “My mom’s dying, I’m home to help out, but feel trapped, and, oh yeah, I’m out of work,” sort of grumpy.  Yeah.  That kind of grumpy.  (Though, I do admit that coffee would help.  Coffee always helps.) Really, when one is home to spend time with the aforementioned mother with stage four cancer, being a grumbling, grousing, gooberhead is not really a great way to make these last months together meaningful.  I know this.  I understand this.  I’m still grumpy.

I think this is where I am now supposed to type some meaningful story about how all of my grumpiness is in the past and I’ve now achieved enlightenment and am all sorts of nifty fun time happy, but that is not about to happen.  I feel as if I have lead weights attached to my ankles and they are dragging me down into the bog of eternal stench or the swamps of sadness, or some other eighties movie reference of grossness and ugh.  The trouble with all of this ugh on my part, is that I know I really have no real reason to feel as if my whole reality is painted in shades of beige and taupe.  I’m alive. Until I moved back from China to help out at home, I was employed doing something I mostly kind of liked.  I have cuddly pets.  I waste money on chocolate raspberry fru fru coffee (as my dad calls it).  I have too many shoes.  I feel as if I don’t really exist.  And I know that worrying about that feeling of not existing in a meaningful way in the world is its own sort of privilege.  Which, of course, makes me even more grumpy.  If I have no really good reason to feel as if this endless pursuit of a reality in which I do not feel as if all of this blah, blah, blah is meaningless, then it is even more pathetic that I am indulging in such melancholic yuck in the first place.

And so the cycle goes.  The fact that it is cold out and my toes get wet from all of the rain does not help.  The fact that I’ve read all of those books too…you know…the ones from the billion dollar industry telling us how not to feel the way we are feeling and choose our attitudes and know that our egos are in fact egos and are not the we who we really are, does not help.  Because apparently, the attitude I am choosing, have chosen for the past five months is the attitude of grump.

This is where I am at the moment.  Smack dab in the middle of my own grumbling grouch.  This is where I need to get out of.  St. Augustin, or St. Someone, or Ekhart Tolle, or Buddha, or anyone of those sorts of people who write about this sort of human condition sort of thing tends to say that hell is a human creation.  The state of hell is create when we turn our back on our highest selves. Or some such version of some such thing.  So.  This hell of my grumbling is something I have created.  Now, I just have to create a way out.  I’m pretty sure the most well marked map out of the depths of despair (Anne of Green Gables, of course) is to jump into this whole gratitude/attitude thing.  And that is where my stubbornness tends to kick in.  I blame it all on Oprah.

Grumpy

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