poised and positioned

I think I might have some form of OCD. I’m haunted by items not quite perfectly in their place. A pair of earrings gone rogue and placed atop a fake box-made makeshift tabletop in my youngest daughter’s room. Sneakers I toppled off from earlier this morning sit with the left nearly on its side while the right is perfectly straight, and thoughts hum in the back of my mind for hours about how that right shoe is patiently awaiting for the left to get its s**t together and come straighten itself out and be placed perfectly next to its poised position. I cave into my obsessive thoughts and pause my meeting for less than 60 seconds to attend to the inanimate object. I smile for a deed well done and say aloud, “Well, there you are, that’s better,” with a slight grin of appreciation for my small action. I sit back down and return to said meeting, all while processing the feeling that I have some form of craziness trying to make itself known, or perhaps 41 is when you enter the phase where they will identify as the year she lost her wits about her. I think this is some type of metaphor for my life. I’m waking up with chest pains and unsure if the cause is psychological or physical ailments from simply turning another year older last week. Things are not in their place. My youngest daughter is not in her room. The plan is not mapped as it once was. Every constant has somehow morphed or faded this year, and my mind is desperate to find poised, perfected positions of normality or what once was or always has been. Even the dog is some form of anxious energy roaming the house in the middle of the night, unsure where he belongs as well. Perhaps he is mirroring back to me my subconscious frequency he has picked up and thinks it’s his own now to bear. So I drink loose-leaf tea at 7 a.m. and pretend to get on with it while my mind fights against the idea that men are indeed revolting predators to be locked away for fear that they will use the worst of modern-day weapons: a group chat 57-future-leaders-of-the-world deep, who were excited about the message “Free Pussy upstairs,” with no conscience or care of who that pussy belongs to and how she got there. Then we will call them Cornell 7 this time and another Joe Doe, while I calculate the significance of the number 7. 7 days for creation to be made, 57 men to do nothing but partake, 7 men for 7 hours to expel the life from God’s very own hands of creation. And then I ponder over everything that happens in 7 seconds: * An individual subconsciously makes 11 distinct decisions about another person during those initial 7 seconds of contact. * We form lasting snap judgments of credibility, trustworthiness, and competence within 7 seconds of meeting someone. * Approximately 28 babies are born and 14 people die globally every 7 seconds. * Roughly 700 lightning flashes strike Earth every 7 seconds. * The Universe expands outward by 525 kilometers every 7 seconds. 7:17 on the clock as I walk toward my kitchen… And I will push down the lever of my French press while I push down my feelings and watch the dark liquid bubble a bit on the sides as proof that everything rebels, and if we are pushed down hard and fast enough, those small traces of bubbles turn to rage and pop with enough force to splash up and out of the glass container trying to keep all its grounds contained. A whole generation of women are fighting for themselves, their ancestors, their children, and their children’s children in hopes they will never be victims in a group chat, nameless, with only a womb to be identified as. We are all trying to put a left shoe back in its place, poised and positioned… just right. Get full access to Diary of a Life Well Lived at diaryofalifewelllived.substack.com/subscribe