A kernel of truth

My Friday nights have been my personal Netflix nights for some time. Which isn't to say others aren't welcome but that's the way it works out. And I've begun to find unpopped microwave popcorn kernels in the oddest places. Near my bed. In my bathroom. Just inside my front door. As though if one were to follow a trail of kernels, they could observe the pattern of my days. Onion and garlic bits remain on my kitchen floor, fluff from my wool rug scatters under glass tables and hairballs mingle stubbornly behind doors but kernels go everywhere.

My psychiatrist said this morning that if you don't respect yourself, your mate won't respect you either. Your mate must treat you with kindness, consideration, love and respect. If he/she doesn't, get the hell out. Somehow hearing him utter these truths without a trace of cliche belted me with a resounding smack of whatthefuck right across my face. (It doesn't hurt that he's a beautiful man with a beautiful wife and beautiful children. Clearly he's got something right. )
It's all about you. Not about getting inside someone else's head and wondering what they think of you. And the moment you start belittling yourself in a relationship, it's over. How am I 28 and still not internalizing the things?

And, as always, I think of my mother. And the questions I wish I could ask her.