Because that would be really embarrassing.
I talked to my beloved Dr. today. I had self-diagnosed myself with strep throat because I am brilliant that way. And by " brilliant that way" I mean that I have no idea what I am talking about.
I do not have strep throat. I have thrush again from the nasty medicines I take. And I have a lump in my breast because I do not know the difference between a swollen lymph node and a boobie bump. Brilliant that way.
So anyway, the Dr. and I were chatting about my other condition, grief zombietude (see previous post), when he asked me what my family and friends had to say on the subject. So I told him.
And he said, "How do you know?"
And I said, "Because I asked them, 'Just how much of a psycho-bitch am I right now?' "
And the Dr.'s jaw dropped. "You just asked them?"
But of course. How am I going to know if I don't ask?
This brings me back to my worldview and blog focus that people should talk about things. Mouths are good for eating, drinking, and breathing. Voices are good for yelling "HELP!" and singing along with Prince. Brains are good for eating. (Little zombie joke there.) Brains are good for everything.
Put a mouth, a voice, and brains together and you have someone who can talk which is a never-ending miracle unless they are talking about the MTV awards, Hollywood infidelity or are the Pope. (Secularism has made the UK a third world country?!? Nazis and atheism?!? He needs to have his potassium checked. Trust me. I'm brilliant that way.)
I've had concerned emails and calls today from the lovely tribe I call my friends about my blog post yesterday. Several of them are considerably more private than I am about their feelings and are a wee bit concerned that I would share such "intimate" details of my life. We have very different perspectives on this.
In review, people tell me stuff. All kinds of stuff. Stuff they don't tell just anyone. And most people tell me these things almost immediately after meeting me. After salsa dancing with a girlfriend I listened to the divorce and parenting woes of the man (a stranger) on the next barstool. My waiters share their money problems. My paper carrier and I have become blood sisters. I have never flown anywhere without hearing at least one deeply held secret from someone.
I think people tell me stuff because a) I don't mind a bit, b) I find people interesting, c) I encourage them because I think it makes them feel better and I always learn more about human nature, and d) I don't carry people's secrets around like they are secrets. I remember some. I forget most of them. If I see the person again, I treat them like I always have.
And this is what I have learned: secrets are just no big deal 95% of the time. They are usually just emotions that got housed in the wrong place and some strange occurrence resulted from the misfiling. Why should your pain be a secret? Why should your confusion be a secret? We all have these issues with love, grief, mortality, our bodies, and fear. No one is in a place to judge anyone else on these things.
So why wouldn't I confess to being a grief zombie? I've known lots of grief zombies. They were perfectly nice people. Why wouldn't I confront my co-workers on my level of bitchitude, more so since one is my husband and the other my best friend. Why wouldn't I talk publicly about suicide loss? It hurts. It sucks. And tons of people get it from a variety of angles. More importantly, I get it better now that I copped to it publicly. My willingness to talk about it has made lots of great people tell me their stories and I feel connected in new ways to old friends, acquaintances, and even strangers. This isn't "intimate". This is just life.
Not that I don't need help.
I called a new friend this afternoon because he'd sent the grief zombie a sweet message and I had then tried to put the toaster in the refrigerator. I don't know what the connection was and it turns out neither did he.
I called my blogging buddy Lizard Eater because I think this mammogram will probably hurt what with the lymph/boobie bump and all. She has more cancer experience than anyone should and we agreed that this is not a cancer scare. I may be brilliant that way but she actually knows a thing or two.
I read an email from a friend who became a close friend after I admitted on this blog to putting my dress on backwards, dropping my pants by accident in public, and making my own underwear. He has more Grief Abatement ideas a-brewing. Clothing will be firmly in place.
And somewhere along the way I explained that talking about these things for me is not intimate. Then I blurted, "It is not like I sprouted a penis." Since that is one of the funnier things I've said lately, I do believe I struck a blow against grief zombie-tude.
Rock on witcho' bad selves. Thanks for reading.