Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. More to the point, each deep, inward gulp seemed to energize the accelerating beats, feeding it. Inhaling became a sharp stab in what I knew had to be a ventricle.
Housecleaning helps. So does ironing. The structure of order calms me, especially when all around things swirl out of control like the astronauts doing somersaults and eating bananas sans-hands in a space documentary.
It’s become a struggle to blog, a struggle to write. A struggle to put on pants that zip and go outside with the three dimensional people. I think this is what’s called depression. Filled the Ativan prescription for the third time (my doctor, a Boulder granola hippie, knows I know myself and that I only ask for 20 pills of slumber when absolutely needed). In true Veruca Salt fashion, however, I chase one of the tiny sugary pills with vodka or red wine and sleep for ungodly hours like a hibernating bear barely rolling over to scratch his balls. Problem is, growly slumber remains into late morning and past. I’m not functional again until dinner time, the day spent lounging braless in pajamas.
“I’m having a 'Jodie' day,” I convince myself. It’s a lie. I'm not regrouping, re-energizing. I'm hiding.
Made it half way through a Boulder Independent Film before the stomach betrayed me again, forcing an early exit. Bowed out of a get together with one of the lovely blondes I met at the singles event last week. Awoke at 11:17 Saturday morning for the cardio class that started at 10:30.
Maybe I need a handler, someone to watch over. I’m in trouble, or close to getting there. At one time, I had brothers and sister-in-laws and parents, the plural now singular (if that). “I miss my family,” I squeaked into the phone a few days ago.
I told a therapist once (on my second and last visit...really, stuff I already knew about myself) that I’d been feeling like the flame from a gas stove turned to low. That I wanted the heat back on high, a wildly dancing flame. Guess we all feel it sometimes, whether published author or wannabe writer, married or single, employed or laid off, sick or healthy, fatter or skinnier. Talk about the great equalizer. We want the swirl of life.
I bet you have it, you think I do.
We’re both wrong sometimes.