I am trying to settle my stomach and get myself ready to hunker down and work on my story, but I don’t know if I can get you the full five hundred that way so I’m shimmy-ing and shaking and making the ends meet.
It was writing group tonight which means it’s my bi-monthly turn behind the wheel. Seriously, I have to do something that gets me out driving, but lately, with the snow and cold, we ride home and there is no desire or sense to go rambling around in the dark for no reason. This was my reason and as much as I fretted and fussed and didn’t want to go at all, I managed to read what I needed to read and drive to our meeting place without falling into any brand of raw despair. No panic attacks, though it feels rusty, and as though one could emerge at any time. I have these inexplicable conversations in my head about needing to pull over, even if I’m in the left lane, to just get off the road, now, now, now. It takes a lot to tell this root of pure anxiety, that I still have to get home, and this will not calm me or change any of that so I might as well stay in the lane where I am and turn where I’m meant to turn.
It sounds insane. It probably is, but I’m between shrinks, and I didn’t stop – this time – so I have to consider that a victory and just get ready for tomorrow.
Tomorrow is my birthday, tura-lura-lura! I am on the path towards a decent-er self. A Self Less Surrounded By Crap. I don’t know about the scale still, no more than I know what restaurant. I get so hung up on these things, work them over in my mind and make these arbitrary, lunging decisions. The years go by in single steps so I have to stay on this path and not fuck it up for anyone else’s pleasure but my own and my long-term, human wish, is to stop fucking it up.
I don’t give a shit about anything else. I want to talk a long walk around the lake after my Saturday’s Planned Deviation. I want to make a low-carb smorgasbord for dinner. I want to stop doing things with rough edges.
Whenever I don’t know how to write or begin with this white square blinking at me, I am relieved that I could easily start writing five hundred words about you and your good behavior. The speed at which you’ve settled into my heart. The boxes you tick. The gifts you possess. One would have to imagine that you are one of my better presents, a presence that is warm and good and not mine at all. Just another painting on the wall that I can design a daydream around. I am harmless, despite the harm I would do us both in my head, a harm of love and sweeping, confounding change. A harm of petrifying force.