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Managing to celebrate (little victories over BPD brain)
I locked the doors. I closed the theatre. My literature review was done. My shift was over. I was walking alone with a week old Happy Birthday balloon.
The balloon’s stick was four feet long, a stiff plastic straw bouncing on the concrete. The night was cool, and I had no one to celebrate with except the streetcar.
BPD-brain told me to go home and tidy. Or sleep; get ready for the next wave of work. Recover my battery power and oil the machine – just cause it’s over doesn’t mean it’s done. Robot worker, tireless mind, emotionless human.
But I went into the yoghurt shop. Froyo was my new indulgence, obscenely encouraged by the local-to-work Menchies. It was overly colourful, late in their shift, and busy with summer wannabes. I put my balloon on a chair and made my cup with raspberry tart, cake batter, and blackberry sorbet.
I walked into the night and slowly savoured each taste. I did it. I bought myself a yoghurt. I called no one for reassurance. I did it in order to celebrate. I was alone. I bought a yoghurt, mom, all by myself! Ridiculous, yes. But I beat BPD-brain. I beat it to the ground. I celebrated myself. I ate that yoghurt and it was delicious. I walked home awkwardly keeping the balloon out of the yoghurt cup with two fingers, while I ate with the other hand.
Over the park, a corn moon rose, a golden moon the size of an enormous dollar – the colour of my cake batter yoghurt. It watched me while I walked through the park towards home, slurping the last drops of sweetness.
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