It seems weeks fly by and I barely notice. I’m numb and exhausted from not doing anything of substance.
This weekend was a rare opportunity to do anything. Other than an appointment for a little chop-chop on Saturday morning, The Mc and I had no where we had to be and nothing we had to do…it should have been a perfect opportunity to take pictures, to knit, to catch up on reading, to go for a long walk or a hike.
Instead, we both found ourselves feeling puny, a little icky and a lot unmotivated and spent the better part of our two days lumped on the couch, snaking and starting at the flickering lights on the boob tube.
I’m not sure what’s gotten into me – or rather – fallen out of me.
Gwen would say it’s the weather. That’s probably the foundation for me, but there’s more to it.
Maybe it’s the paralysis that comes from having so many things you should be doing that you can’t start any of them. Someone once said “even joy can become a burden if you laugh too much.” Was it me? Did I say that? Even my ability to recollect is blurred.
Maybe it’s the disappointment from the promise of something falling flat and the struggle to find motivation again.
Maybe it’s the burning to do something more, something real with my hands (see also: cabin).
Maybe it’s my always present lack of patience and need for immediate gratification.
Maybe it’s the feeling that life has become predictable and normalized. I loathe both.
Even the illogical is creeping in: last night I was half way to sleep when I said something about wanting to go to Disneyland. Mc indicated he didn’t want to go, he’d already been there. I know better, but I probed “with your family?” Yeah…um…no. Why does that even bother me? It was a lifetime ago and I’m not without my history. See? Illogical. I’m fine intellectually, but the emotional is disconnected. Ironic, since my therapist and I just decided we could start easing up on the frequency of our appointments.
I’m numb and gray and find myself both over stimulated and bored out of my mind at the same time. I don’t want to write about anything, knit anything, go on walks, or take pictures of anything.
I flash forward. I think about being in the house we build: sitting and listening to birds and trees and drinking a little tea…and not showering for days on end. Planted in front of an entire wall of windows that are open wide, and a nip in the air I don’t fight.
I want to be where I’m not thinking about the taxes I finished a few weeks ago or my recent (second) bout of card fraud. I want to be where I don’t have to make the bed every morning or do any other chores (because the dang house is up for sale), what my calendar looks like or any other spoken or unspoken requirements that bind and confine me…including doing this.
Maybe tomorrow will be better.