No icicles, no snow, no sleet. Not here, at least. It's not even quite freezing but damn, it sure feels cold to the bone out there. A day in which its hard to believe that the sun will shine again, that it will be warm, that spring will come.
My appointment is in a few hours. I keep making the calculations in my head for the timing of when to shower, when to leave. I want to leave early so I can drive slowly. I hate this. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. I drank some smoothie. My stomach feels terrible.
When I was talking to my friend yesterday she told me that she loves reading my blog. I was a little surprised. I didn't know she did read it but she does and she told me that when she was sitting in the hospital with her sister, she would read it and that it was a comfort to her to read about the grandchildren, the chickens. "Don't stop writing," she said. "I won't," I told her.
Sometimes I wonder why I do this at all. Who cares if I have anxiety? Who cares if my chickens have begun to lay eggs again? Who cares if my grandsons, according to me, are adorable and hysterical and that I love them so much it doesn't even seem possible?
I don't know.
Why am I talking to myself? Because that is, essentially, what I am doing.
Today I am talking to myself about getting this appointment over with. I have other things to do in town too. I really want to just curl up into a ball and sleep through it all. The appointment time, the in-town stuff, the cold, the rain. Just sleep right through until spring. Wake up hungry and curious about the world instead of this constant drudge through all the mess of what's in my mind; what's outside of it. Did you know that before there were anxiety medications one of the last-resort treatments for this disorder was to put people in a sort of drug-induced coma so that they would sleep through days and nights with very little waking in hopes that they would heal and recover while unconscious?
I understand that.
Well, that ain't happening today.
The birds are still flocking to the feeder, even in the gray wet cold. I am trying to look upon them as portents of color and goodness and hope. It is hard.
I wish with all of my heart that I wasn't so crazy. I wish I knew how to flip the switch, to slip this bitch, this crazy-mind.
I am grateful to be able to write it all out. Or, to at least leak some of it.