I wrote a post this week about how much I hated myself, but I didn't publish it because I am a chicken shit and also, you might worry that I'm about to aim my car toward the nearest cliff.
As it turns out, a kindred spirit wrote something kind of similar, and she posted it with an explanation of why she self-edits.
It reminded me that I'd been looking for a poem that pretty much sums up my daily paranoia, and which I first discovered via Ann Lamott's book, "Bird by Bird," which my lovely and talented friend suggested that I read some nine odd years ago. It is by Phillip Lopate.
We who are
your closest friends
feel the time
has come to tell you
that every Thursday
we have been meeting
as a group,
to devise ways
to keep you
in perpetual uncertainty
frustration
discontent and
torture
by neither loving you
as much as you want
nor cutting you adrift.
Your analyst is
in on it,
plus your boyfriend
and your ex-husband;
and we have pledged
to disappoint you
as long as you need us.
In announcing our
association
we realize we have
placed in your hands
a possible antidote
against uncertainty
indeed against ourselves.
But since our Thursday nights
have brought us
to a community
of purpose
rare in itself
with your as
the natural center,
we feel hopeful you
will continue to make unreasonable
demands for affection
if not as a consequence
of your disastrous personality
then for the good of the collective.
I love this! Thank you! John thinks we should get a discount on group therapy!
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Christina
We all look so good on the inside, but really on the inside we all have the same struggles. Thank goodness we all have each other even if it is through cyber space.
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