A Life Lived Ridiculously
by Dr Annabelle R Charbit
He frowned and I cringed. I was nearest to the door. If I bolted now I would save us both the time and embarrassment. Instead, I took a deep breath and steadily described my all-consuming encounters with lampshades, bedclothes, books, and clutter. As I listened to the words pour from my mouth, I could have thumped myself in the face. Not because the words evoked emotions, rather I was disappointed by the extent to which the words trivialized the mental anguish associated with these decorating dilemmas. It was like suffering from a broken leg but only having the vocabulary to describe a scraped knee. Words just didn’t do justice to the pain. How do you tell a stranger that you don’t like the shape of your lampshade and at the same time expect them to understand that you are describing a pain that inhabits you fully, inserts itself between your cells like cement and wears your skin like a coat? I just sounded like I was whining.
