confused and scared and trying really hard all the time
Rod’s in the kitchen humming and cooking something and I’m sitting in a pile of grumpiness and on the couch, decidedly not humming and wishing I could go to bed except that if I don’t eat something I will probably die of it.
It’s one of those days where my heart feels funny—kind of weightless and suspended and fluttery, in an uncomfortable way. When everything feels difficult and everything is too complex to tackle. No, I couldn’t take out the recycling. It was too far away and can’t you see I’m suffering here? Or not suffering. No, I’m not suffering. I’m just feeling non-specifically anxious and I want it to stop and it won’t and that’s just not cool. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I’m trying to be okay, and I don’t know how to do that either.
Today was actually a reasonable, just-fine day. I worked a truly epic amount, and even accomplished the things I set out to do. I might even make my big deadline tomorrow, and wouldn’t that be some kind of miracle on 34th street shit right there?
I want—I don’t know what I want. To make my deadlines. To not be worried about money right now. To not be worried about this puppy in the house, because puppies are made from teeth and fur and worry and dumb. I want the house to be clean, and the house to be fully decorated, and the house to not be so goddamn cold, which makes me think there is, or is going to be, some kind of terrifyingly expensive repair springing out of the darkness and scything its claws through my vulnerable underbelly. I want to not screw up this party I’m throwing on Saturday. I want people to show up. I’m afraid no one will show up. I want to stop being sore and run-down and tired because how long does it take to heal from an abdominoplasty, for the love of god?
I want to stop being scared all the time and worried all the time and tired all the time and sure everything is going to go wrong all the time. I want to have enough sense of self preservation to not admit that in public, but there is something—not helpful. Not satisfying. Not soothing. Something about saying it that changes it, just the tiniest bit. That drags it out of the darkness so that I can look at it straight on, see the flaws and the cracks and the reasons to disbelieve and the reasons to laugh, shake it off, knock it all away.
