The Enema

Today I had an enema. Not the kind you are thinking, but still the same uncomfortable draining and purging.  The porcelain was not stained with my toxic waste, but my crisp, white sheets were painted with mascara stained tears.  I had been emotionally constipated and today I had my enema.

You see my mom is dead.  Dead.  I realize the harshness of this sentence and the cold, brutal truth it conveys.  I acknowledge that in many cultures this sentence is completely inappropriate.  I am supposed to say she has "passed on" or "passed away" or "passed something, something".  But the fact is she is dead and for me it has been helpful to say this sentence.  So I said it out loud and with confidence........and then I had my enema.

I purged.  I cried, I cranked, I crabbied, I yelled, I snapped, I tantrumed.  It was exhausting and my enema took all day.

I  get the crassness of this metaphor and the possible insensitivity that one may gather from its useage.  However, if you knew my family you would recognize it is pure genius as almost every topic of discussion leads down a road paved with bowel calamities.  So take a breath. My mom isn't cringing but more likely nodding her head with understanding.  Probably even approval.

The day is done and I expected to feel cleansed.  I don't. I hoped to feel lighter, heathier and stronger.
I feel none of these.

I am all stopped up once again.