I have a problem. A quandary. A conundrum. I’m in a bit of a bind, or a…. a pickle, if you will. No, back to conundrum. Most likely a conundrum.
I am happy.
Thirty per cent of you just went, “Huh?” and the rest of you nodded and said, “Oh dear. That is a conundrum. Possibly a jam, Kim. Possibly a jam.”
I am having the urge to do unwise things. Not like strip off all my clothes and go dancing merrily through the golf course. I have that urge all the time, happy or not. I’m having the urge to do things I usually have my guard up against. I want to send my ex an email that says something like, “So how are you? Really?” I want to donate to charities and buy myself flowers. I want to take a nap. I want to spend an inordinate amount of time helping a young actor get his career started. I want to get new photos taken of myself. These are all bad ideas. They have the potential to really kick my ass. I mean, except for the nap, but then I would have spent time I should be Doing Something in NOT doing something and then there’s the stress of being relaxed and well-rested to contend with. It ain’t pretty. But I know there is only so much money, time, patience and love allotted to my life. I KNOW this. I have to ration this stuff if I want to be happy. Happiness is telling me otherwise.
Happiness always seemed to be a goal. There were steps to take to GET there and I’m pretty sure I haven’t taken all of them. I’m not financially secure, I’m not universally beloved, I’m not hailed as Universal Champion and Victor, and I don’t seem to have anyone near me who’s sole purpose is to kiss my ass. All of these things were on my to-do list before I’d get to happy, yet somehow I’ve arrived. But… I’m… still…. going. Hmmmmmmmmmm. I thought it was like a play with happiness being the closing number. Yet here I am, most definitely not having dropped dead of a heart attach or salmonella poisoning.
I will inevitably leave again. This cannot be my perpetual Facebook status. Kim Rhodes is…. happy. I don’t know how I got here, so I’m pretty sure I don’t know how to get back. I can’t point to an incident or event that MADE me happy, I just am. I should immediately be rendered miserable by this awareness, but you know what? In this weird state of happiness, I’m actually NOT WORRIED! I got here once, I’ll do it again. It will be amusing and enjoyable.
WHO THE FUCK AM I???? Really, I don’t know who I am. Kinda. I had assumed that if this ever happened, I would immediately drown in the toilet of self-doubt. Who am I now? What am I if not the battered but unbowed victim?
I did a mental inventory and noticed a lot of stuff has gone missing. Stuff that I really believed made me the person I identify as being me. First, my body issues seem to have been misplaced, resulting in what will most likely be a catastrophic exposure of thigh for tomorrow night’s red carpet event. There may be screams of terror. I don’t know. I won’t even know I caused them, since all of a sudden I think it’s a terrific idea to wear a skirt that barely covers my butt, so any cries of, “It burns! It burns! Make it stop!” won’t have any impact on me at all, I’ll be blissfully believing I’m being described as “leggy”.
I’m trying to figure out where my temper has run off to. Now I’m usually quite adept at not flipping people off. This is Los Angeles. People carry guns and I do have a self-preservation instinct. I don’t always have time to write snarky tweets to people who’s idiocy renders me incoherent. I frequently leave the letters to my father in draft form rather than sending them. Still, the rage is always simmering nicely under the surface, even if I don’t act on it. But I just went to look for that cauldron of piss and discovered it’s taken a leave of absence. At first I doubted myself, so I double checked by reading some political news. I got a bit irked by the pastor who advocated smacking the shit out of your kid if you think he’s gay, but even then the dominant emotion was pity, not anger. I blame happiness. It’s out to get me. Who am I if not angry?
Happiness is even draining the sea of resentment I’ve spent a lifetime cultivating. I tapped a little of the rage to water it, fed it with self-pity, and watched it grow into something I could really be proud of. It was a moat of protection. Truly! I picked an old, confused man up off the ground a couple of days ago, waited until the police came, got him home, and then went in to call my old, confused Dad and tell him I love him. And I meant it! Oh dear.
I’ve mentioned before that I lost my virginity to a rape. I have pruned that resentment like a bonsai tree. I wore it like a shield, vowing that my venom was mother’s milk and as long as I held the pain, I could guarantee it never happened again. AND, I would be an interesting, damaged, dark, brooding, intense and deep person. Wow. When you put it like that, a life-changing incident of brutality is a small price to pay! Yeah…. I can’t quite seem to find even that! That’s usually my go-to spot to work up a good head of steam, and I can’t be bothered. So you KNOW my lingering issues with the ex are like bubbles I’m trying to fan upward, knowing they’re only going to pop too. I was talking about my old job yesterday and felt…. GRATITUDE! Fuck me! I’m so used to equating that job with losing my house, I was totally thrown mid-stream when I found myself crediting that job for giving me my child. Which, by the way, the bank CAN’T take back. (I’ve looked into it.) No! No! If it were up to my conscious self, I would keep that shit strapped to me like sticks of dynamite! It keeps me wary and watchful, it keeps me strong!
I can’t find it anywhere. I’m not saying it’s gone for good. There is a lingering aroma, but…. this is a pickle indeed. I have this completely unreasonable optimism that’s making me act in a foreign manner, what with all the taking care of myself and helping people and spending money like I’m gonna get more somehow. Say what?
This happy shit is really throwing me for a loop, because, see, I actually feel MORE myself after losing so many of those things I thought were me. My “rooms” have many sayings. One of my favorites is, “I used to be a victim, now I’m a volunteer.” Is it possible that all of that shit that happened TO me wasn’t actually ME? Is it possible that my continuous reaction to them, clutching on to the wounds like an Armani jacket that’s been thrown in the 25c bin is detrimental to my happiness? And maybe, juuuuuuuust maybe, that my misery is in my control no matter what’s been done to me in the past?
I dunno. That sounds suspicious. I’m sure I’d want those questions answered if I were in a slightly more miserable mood. As it is, I have a chiropractor appointment.