A Good Day for Destruction
I was involved in a nasty divorce that spanned more than a year. Please, tell me of a divorce that was acrimoniously. There are a few, but mine was not. However, it pretty much was your average, garden-variety split.
Still, in the split of an almost decade-long union, there was bound to be some ugly outbursts on both sides. My lawyer reined me in several times by simply saying, "Don't even so much as break a teacup."
I took this very much to heart, but not in the way she'd intended. She wanted me to not undermine her hard work. Instead, it gave me a visual, a goal even. The day that damned divorce was finalized, I allotting myself one teacup, bought from who knows where, and I was going to absolutely smash it to pieces. As the divorce raged on and when I wanted to respond in anger, I visualized that teacup in my future.
There was nothing special about the day the divorce was finalized. I may have thought about the teacup. Or it may have taken a few days even to remember that long-awaited moment I'd held on to so tightly. I never once even so much as touched a teacup. Once over, I had no desire to take out my frustration of an innocent piece of porcelain.
That was almost two years ago. Fast forward to yesterday. My former coworker brought by a cardboard box of my personal items. The medical leave I'd requested from my job was denied, a letter a few days prior stating that the company had to move forward. Somehow I thought there was still room for negotiation, but there is nothing more sobering than a carboard box full of your personal effects from your former employer.
Let me tell you this. Much like the movie Seven, there was never going to be anything good in the box. Beyond this, even if my former employer had hired my own grandmother to lovingly pack up my items, I was going to find fault. And didn't even have to try very hard. At the top of the box was a wooden plaque of mine that read, "It's always a good day to have a good day."
Shudder.
I've quietly put the box in a corner of my bedroom, but my mind wanders to that wooden plaque. Finally, I promised myself this. When I am out of physical therapy and feel strong enough to wield an ax, I can chop that plaque to pieces. But, the caveat, I have to be mentally better, too. Vengeance on this poor plague will be less sweet if I accidentally chop off my toes in this brain fog I'm in right now. So, physically well, mentally sound, the plague gets it.
I hope there comes a day where the I can display this plaque in my home, instead. Maybe I'll even buy a tea set one of these days, too. Maybe.
Still, in the split of an almost decade-long union, there was bound to be some ugly outbursts on both sides. My lawyer reined me in several times by simply saying, "Don't even so much as break a teacup."
I took this very much to heart, but not in the way she'd intended. She wanted me to not undermine her hard work. Instead, it gave me a visual, a goal even. The day that damned divorce was finalized, I allotting myself one teacup, bought from who knows where, and I was going to absolutely smash it to pieces. As the divorce raged on and when I wanted to respond in anger, I visualized that teacup in my future.
There was nothing special about the day the divorce was finalized. I may have thought about the teacup. Or it may have taken a few days even to remember that long-awaited moment I'd held on to so tightly. I never once even so much as touched a teacup. Once over, I had no desire to take out my frustration of an innocent piece of porcelain.
That was almost two years ago. Fast forward to yesterday. My former coworker brought by a cardboard box of my personal items. The medical leave I'd requested from my job was denied, a letter a few days prior stating that the company had to move forward. Somehow I thought there was still room for negotiation, but there is nothing more sobering than a carboard box full of your personal effects from your former employer.
Let me tell you this. Much like the movie Seven, there was never going to be anything good in the box. Beyond this, even if my former employer had hired my own grandmother to lovingly pack up my items, I was going to find fault. And didn't even have to try very hard. At the top of the box was a wooden plaque of mine that read, "It's always a good day to have a good day."
Shudder.
I've quietly put the box in a corner of my bedroom, but my mind wanders to that wooden plaque. Finally, I promised myself this. When I am out of physical therapy and feel strong enough to wield an ax, I can chop that plaque to pieces. But, the caveat, I have to be mentally better, too. Vengeance on this poor plague will be less sweet if I accidentally chop off my toes in this brain fog I'm in right now. So, physically well, mentally sound, the plague gets it.
I hope there comes a day where the I can display this plaque in my home, instead. Maybe I'll even buy a tea set one of these days, too. Maybe.
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