Small Forks

I have an unreasonable dislike of small forks. Not just any small forks, just the ones I own. You may even say, I hate them for the feelings they invoke in my spirit.

Let me attempt to explain how my head sorts through just one of many things that courses through it on an hourly basis, and then I’ll leave it to you to imagine how every basic element of my life goes through these types of thought processes…times 100. Daily. Exhausted yet? I am.

Let’s say you purchase a set of utensils and organize them in a drawer, waiting for an occasion to set the table with style and flair. My small forks are hidden. Why don’t I get rid of them? I don’t know, when am I ever rational?

I remember a time in my life when I would see my small forks and only be reminded of the lessons we learned from a debonaire and toupee’d Hector Elizondo in “Pretty Woman.” We all knew if given the opportunity to attend a formal event, we would know exactly which utensil will be used for what based on the placement on the table. What a gloriously naive time in my life. I often wish to go back there.

For the last 5+ years, small forks are a tangible representation of my depression. Weird, huh?

How I’ve dreamed of this elaborate romantic table setting for two where I’d prepare decadent meals for my beloved. You have no idea how much I love to be domestic when given the opportunity. I would give anything to spoil a man regularly. It’s not something I tire of, it’s something I love to do. I LOVE IT. I can make my own money and bring home my own bacon, but let me crumble that salty delight over the cream sauce I made from scratch enveloping the baked chicken atop the seasoned noodles…..for you. Let’s share this dessert I baked from an old family recipe – one plate, two small forks.

FORKS - 2b

At some point, those small forks would be the utensils for those tiny humans with my smile and his ears. They would need to use these because the larger forks are difficult to maneuver with such short fingers. They would help set the table at this point in their chubby-legged lives; each one having their own small fork they use for every meal. Maybe we’ve marked them by this point because we’ve learned the sibling rivalry at meal time isn’t worth it. Over the heads of our babes, we’d steal a glance and half-smile at the memories of those small forks in our courting years. The incredible salads we ate & desserts we fed each other using them; the joy of those moments almost eclipsed by the absolute bliss of the family we have now despite the many hardships relationships face. We prevailed and look! Look at what we made.

You see, small forks aren’t just four mini-tined metal objects I toss into my utensil organizer that’s stuffed in my kitchen drawer. A depressed mind can project these unrealistic expectations and importance on things you’ve probably walked by/used/ignored/had collecting dust in your everyday life. There’s not a day that goes by where I don’t take a peek where I’ve hidden those small forks. For the way I loathe them as this glaring reminder of what I feel is missing in my life; there’s also an imperceptible nudge, just behind my heart that feels too much, that one day believes I’ll need some masking tape & a Sharpie to distinguish between them.

Hmmm…maybe.

I Always Hope You’re Well: A (very) Short Story

These five words made me breakdown on Saturday night. I don’t know if you have one of these, but I’m convinced everyone does: that one friend you don’t see often, but they’re one of your mains. They know all of your demons and always pop up when you need them most even when you’re not looking for help.

This past weekend, my friend stopped by my place to bestow some season’s greetings and also say bye before his annual trip abroad to volunteer with children.  Now, those who know me know how difficult it is to get into my home. My own parents have to plan this out with me almost weeks in advance. I don’t know why this is a product of my social anxiety and depression, but it’s one of the main things I’m working on with my counsellor. I need to let people in. Somehow, this dude lets himself in, metaphorically &  physically-speaking. He never really asks to come over, he just says he’ll be coming to town. I’m forced to sit in my uneasiness and prepare for the impending visit. He’s never pushy, it’s just the unspoken/unwritten deal we have, I guess. The visits aren’t long, but they are some of the most nutrition-filled for my soul. We catch up, we vent, we share, we listen, we sit in silence. Neither of us will say anything to make things “better,” but just having someone to tell it to is exactly what’s needed.

When he leaves he always gives proper hugs. (Yes, there are right and wrong ways to hug and the explanation will be a later post.) There’s nothing sexual, suggestive or romantic about it. It’s all-encompassing. There’s a transfer energy I didn’t know I was lacking. He doesn’t speak during, he doesn’t pat my back in quick succession to indicate “that’s enough;” he simply provides something sturdy for me to hold on to when I’m feeling effing weak. He gives me a momentary sense of security I’m missing in my life. He makes it okay for me to let my guard down. I don’t have to be the independent, mature adult who’s the great pretender. I get to be the girl I hide in the presence of company; who doesn’t know what the f*ck I’m doing & wishes I had the love and support from someone special in my life.

Love & Other Drugs

Before he let go, he quietly said, “I always hope you’re well.” That was it for me. Those five words. My breath simultaneously whooshed from my lungs & caught in my throat. Such an innocent sentiment. I hope the sound that came from me signified an adequate “thanks.” And then he was gone. A whirlwind visit that fed my malnourished, emotional belly.

I’m only human. A damaged one at that, so the tears flowed freely when he was gone. A much-needed seasonal cry.

We have to remember for all the talking we continue to do, our brains exhaust us with the good fight. We should never feel guilty for taking some time just for ourselves. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that especially at this time of year.

That’s the end. I just wanted to get it off my chest.

Here’s to 2015, a brand-new year of self-help, self-love & self esteem.  I hope we remain well, my loves.