My mantra today is, “It’s not about you. It’s not about you. It’s. Not. About. You. Itsnotaboutyou.” Last night Kisa and I made the decision to cut our holiday at home short. Leave Saturday instead of Monday. It’s no surprise on his part, but something as a shock on mine. I’m the one who kept saying five days isn’t and could never be too long. I was pretty darn convincing when I said I could survive the Bermuda Triangle. I listed books, music, running, knitting, cooking…all things to keep me grounded in times of grief. So, what changed? The fact that it’s not about me. Leaving would dismantle the triangle, eliminate the necessary component that makes up the equation that spells craziness. With me out of the picture perfect harmony can be restored.
So. If all that is true, why do I feel so damn guilty about leaving early? Why am I anticipating the bombing of Monhegan harbor in the start of my own private world war three? Because I can’t convince myself it isn’t all about me. I remind myself that I don’t get the phone calls that indicate excitement. My sister explains It’s all about the kids. Exactly. It’s not about me. I remind myself that I go home more often than any other travel arrangement combined. I can count the visits to MA on one hand.
Still. There is guilt. It’s Christmastime. We’re supposed to be excited. I am. Believe me, I am. I have been dreaming about this trip for years. Home for the holidays. The island in winter. Christmas Eve and the sound of the surf. In my mind I’m already there. And already leaving. Do what you have to do, I was told. That’s the phrase of a passive aggressive guilt-trip. I do what I hate have to do. Anything to get over the feeling it’s not about you.