Sometimes I’m overcome with an intense urge to break shit. Like, when I’m turning off the bathroom faucet. At times, I want to keep pulling and twisting the glass knob – long after the water has stopped flowing – just to see what would happen. And, then there are the times when I’m strolling through the aisles of West Elm and experience a sudden desire to thrash about the home décor until it all disintegrates like it was branded with an IKEA label. Of course, I have enough impulse control to behave myself, but still, breaking is on my mind.
Mostly, I notice, when I’m feeling broken. You know, misery loves company. Well, that’s what they say anyway. Which is to say, I want to take the faucet and half of West Elm down with me? Better than taking out an entire population, I suppose. Regardless, when I’m submerged in this feeling, I retreat to the most familiar place I know: Home.
I’m not even sure how accurate that noun is, since I’m not referring to my home. I’m speaking more loosely; talking about the place I grew up, which is technically someone else’s home now. Either way, my mom and sister’s family live in Iowa, where I spent the majority of my childhood and teen years before a force, known as ‘a dry heat’ pulled me in its general direction. But, I can’t really have two homes, can I? Especially if home is where the heart is, like they say. Because, come on, I don’t have multiple hearts, like a cephalopod. I’ve got just one beating inside me, which is more than enough to manage, thank you very much.
So it makes sense to carry it with me as I go about my business, at my house, because, well, I need it. But, even though I’m a big girl with a mortgage and all, I’ve never been good at home repairs. Yeah, yeah, I’ve got a tool kit and a plunger, but they’re more for decoration and really just to say I have them. Kind of like security. A pretty, pink hammer only pushes a nail in so deep, you know. Eventually, I end up calling in backup: My cousin’s husband, a burly neighbor, or good friend’s fiancé.
Much is the same in the manner in which I handle the matters of my heart. When it gets crushed like a Diet Coke can alongside Steve-O’s head, I let the experts deal with it. And, they are experts because they’re back home. They know their way around my heart because they’re quite familiar with it. That’s just what happens when you’re around something so much; you get to know it – like it or not. Similar to driving in snowy conditions or using tampons. Neither particularly enjoyable tasks, but the more you perform them, the more versed you become.
The last time my heart fell apart, about seven months ago, I flew back to Iowa – with the intent of letting the rest of me fall apart, too. Really, I had visions of reviving Miss Hannigan. I was gonna binge on gin. I was gonna dress like Lindsay Lohan was my stylist. I was gonna throw myself at inappropriate men. I was gonna eat nachos and cake batter. I had a plan. But, it was ruined by the people who love me. Because when you’re surrounded by the people you love most in this world, the thrill of making an ass of yourself shrivels up like a penis that’s been exposed to Octomom porn.
I’m an aunt, a daughter, and a sister. Not a professor of self-destruction. I want my 7-year-old niece to remember giving me makeovers that made me look like Kesha, not act like her. I want my mom to hold her head high when she’s with me, not steady mine in the toilet. I want my sister to entrust her kids to me at Chuck E. Cheese’s. Okay, maybe that’s asking too much.
Regardless, as cliché as it sounds, loving people makes you want to be better – mostly for them, but a little for yourself, too. So, when your heart shatters, gets pummeled, or just cracks a bit, take it home. It’s where the broken heart goes. Just make sure to bring your laundry and appetite, because it just makes sense.
FOR KREIN OUT LOUD 