I can’t tell you how many times I’ve uttered this phrase. Whether it’s the target I am aiming my gun at or the sock I just tossed toward the washing machine, I’m aiming for the one in the middle.
I may refer, throughout this book, many times to lyrics from Metallica songs. Please understand, forgive or reminisce with me...whichever you are compelled to do. In this instance, aiming for the center, the median, is almost like my life.
Some days I feel like I am the world’s greatest disappointment. I struggle with understanding, with enunciation, with balance.
I refuse to call myself an alcoholic. I choose to believe that there are situations I can control, irregardless of what the mainstream dictates.
I am high functioning on so many levels that any or all of my iniquities could be construed as “obsessive, addictive, controlling.” But mostly I just feel like a pig on roller skates.
Hitting the “one in the middle” on a regular basis is a major victory for me. I know that there will be days that I impact far left or right. Maybe I don’t even hit near the mark, but this is today and today I tried.
I count calories and obsess over chore charts and grocery lists in my head. I know I got this quirk from my dad. His undiagnosed Obsessive Compulsive Disorder was actually a comfort to me. There is a peace in rhythm.; in control. Timing is control.
I suppose exposing the other irregularities in my life throughout the chapters of this book makes me feel at home in my weird, little nest. Truth is; what is truth? We all make excuses which are irregardless of what is real. Told you that word would grate on your nerves and also stick in your deep psyche before we were through here.
I can understand how Dad used time to find balance. He used the clock to keep pace, rhythm. And in a life that was so far from control, it was no wonder he clung to time like a life raft.
I am the one in the middle. Middle sister, co-dependant, mediator. It works great for my occupation as a membership coordinator. I drive the short bus, installing all the other crazies to their depositories.
Being in the middle makes you the force and the target. Like Luke Skywalker in the garbage pit, the walls come in from all sides to crush you into your current state of being. I like to think that diamonds are also forged this way. We are diamonds made from garbage.
