I have been Plastergirl this week. I have these weird spates where one hand or another will be covered in bandages, and I’m in another one of them. The one on the thumb is where I sliced my knuckle open on the inside of a cupboard door. Because, of course, I am grace fucking incarnate. The other is a random bug bite that continues to be redder and angrier than photographed. I keep looking at it wondering if there’s something I can do to make it better, and then I just sort of shrug and am glad that it doesn’t really hurt unless I do something stupid like touch it. *pokes it* Ow.
Work-working went as well as I could have hoped it to. I’m still not caught up to where I’d want to be, but I’m doing things fast enough for people in the office to notice and comment on it. That’s comforting/encouraging/insert other adjectives here. I like my job. All it is at current is data entry, but I find it super-zennish, and more so that I can do it without the stress of being in an environment replete with people and ringing phones and that sort of anxiety-growing bullcrap.
As for the knitting, that’s going well enough. I even managed to blag some ribbon into the booties for a pretty tie. I’m not 100% convinced that it’s good enough, or that the ribbons are long enough, but if my sister wants to change them out with different ribbons, that’s her call. I just liked the idea of adding a splash of emerald, because emerald.
I’ve also been having a bit of a smug this week. I think all of y’all reading this here know that I cut my parents out of my life a few years ago, and why it was one of the best things for my health I’ve ever done. Well, one thing I’d absorbed over the years was that I was her inferior in all ways. So when I found out I was a significantly better knitter than her, it was a massive revelation, and step towards reclaiming my value as an individual ((‘The result may be what has been termed a pattern of narcissistic attachment, with the child considered to exist solely to fulfill the parent’s wishes and needs.’)). So knowing that I’m making my niece or nephew-to-be a load of hand-knit goodies in 100% cotton (machine washable!) versus inappropriate materials unsuited for children (scritchy wool or super-cheap acrylic, for example) in square or rectangular form… well. Which isn’t to say that she is without talent, just that this is me claiming my patch where I reign supreme (and am getting better all the time). In a lot of ways, knitting is my symbol of self-love. It’s the first thing that I have been unafraid to excel at; everything else I’ve kind of dithered on because I got sick of my accomplishments existing for someone elses’ fulfillment.
Having said that, I’m still keeping the smug on a low boil at most. I believe it important for me to feel these feelings, and to grieve how long I had to put up with n-parent crap. It’s not even any wishing of ill will — it’s just me allowing myself to treat how I feel as valid, even if it’s not ‘positive’ or ‘upbeat’. I’m entitled to my ‘bad’/’negative’ feelings. They are as valid as any other, even if they aren’t pretty. Honestly, I think we all need to embrace them before they engulf and destroy us. But I don’t really think this is a negative thing, because it’s me learning that I can be proud of my achievements, and that they are *my* achievements, and that they are pretty bad-ass.
Anyways, here comes the cat.