Today has been a weird sort of day. Things can seem to go so well, and then I randomly fall apart. Physical therapy was good; today, almost no pain--but then.
I find myself I find myself not eating; an egg, a small potato, a cup of cocoa, this is two meals. Lapses like this are accidental. I am so tired of food, it just means that whatever there is to cook feels like so much trouble, and I want to curl up and die. For most people it wouldn't matter, but I seem to be a two year old, insufferable if I miss my snack. No one wants to talk to me, I'm mad at myself for needing, and I find myself naked between smooth sheets, comforted by cotton weave against my warm skin, crying, sleeping.
Stress: they are having trouble paying me for my writing. Paperwork, an understandable mistake. I find paperwork overwhelming, like each sheet is a ream, and if I pick it up I'll drop it, they'll all fall across the floor. The bills are multiplying, I can't quite seem to keep track. Over and over I did the math, it should add up but no one wants to fix my roof, and then there's the cost of therapy I didn't factor in. My desk literally overflows, I wonder when I was supposed to have got the skills to manage this.
And doesn't everyone of our generation have baggage? Of course. I can't explain why mine is special, please don't ask. Please. Don't tell me I'm not worth it as a friend, or if you do, do it by not calling and never writing back. You are almost perfect, your geeky awkwardness and cerebral introspection and beautiful face and flattery and kindness. You are exactly my type and I am so, so tired of hurting people. Thinking of you makes my stomach hurt. I didn't mean to let you think it was a date.
But, today, no pain; it saves me. I can stand and breathe. Two pairs of fat wool socks, soft loose warm-ups, black cotton boat-neck and white lace. I go to the computer and write; this is what it is like when my day fails. And now I will go and fix it.