I've taken no pictures today which is quite odd. It's been a day to keep my head down and just keep on truckin', as we used to say back in the Paleolithic Era. I do not know what the hell's going on with me but I don't like it one bit. Could this small tsunami of a wave of anxiety and depression really have been caused by missing one day of medication?
I woke up this morning, earlier than I usually do, full alert awake and everything sparking and not in a good way. After I'd been up for an hour or so I gave in and took an Ativan, so glad I had it, and it did take the sharp crystal edge off it, brought me back to earth a little instead of being off somewhere in the stratosphere, gasping for a breath, a perch, a softer and more familiar landscape.
I spent a good part of the day in the garden, sweating and getting filthy, pulling weeds and the last of the tomatoes, following the fragile but tough fibers of the roots of betony and dollar weed, something real to concentrate on, to grasp in entirety when I could. I found four Yukon gold potatoes that look about good enough to cook and eat as I dug. That was my biggest thrill for the day.
Some days are not meant for thrills.
Lucky and Grace are fine. Honest to god, I'm almost thinking about getting another hen to live in the coop with them. If I had two laying hens, that would probably do us for eggs. We don't eat that many. I used the last egg that Violet gave me making a small skillet of cornbread last night. I can hardly think about her without crying.
Eh, honestly- everything is making me cry today.
Where do these feelings come from? What is the trigger? What is the thing that happens that cracks open the window to allow anxiety to rush in, that crushes the wall so carefully and patiently and painfully built that keeps the crazy from crushing us?
I do not fucking know. But as my husband reminded me just a few minutes ago when we were talking, I told him once that things do change. This, too, will change and pass.
"I know, I know, I know," I pant-chant. "It will."
He's gently trying to get me to commit to the little trip I want so badly to take to Roseland and perhaps Vero, too, and as much as I want to go, to be by the ocean, to be on the river, the very idea of planning it, committing to it, of doing it causes me more anxiety.
He's okay with that. He understands. He just wants to give me a diversion, something to look forward to. I love him for that.
I also love him for getting us hooked up to a streaming service called Epix where we can watch the BBC production of a four-part series called "My Life as a Rolling Stone." Mick, Keith, Ronnie, and finally dear Charley each get an hour and it is beautifully done. We have watched Mick's hour and last night we watched Keith's.
Even in this turmoil of my heart and mind, I enjoyed that. He- well, he inspires me. His beautiful old face as he talks about the past, talks about the music, talks about now, talks about where he came from and what he came from and especially his generosity of soul and spirit as he praises his bandmates, his mentors, those who came before him- he is precious in his way. He has had many, many nights of the soul so dark that I can't even imagine them, and yet, here he is.
There was a part where his manager, his personal assistant for probably almost fifty years, a woman named Jane Rose, said something like, "You watch these older guys as they climb the stairs to the stage and with each step they become younger and then, when they get to the stage, lightening strikes."
Eh. Don't we all want that? Those moments that still, no matter where we are in life are like lightening, both in the sense that there is a power that we can tap into, despite our age, and in the sense that we can shed the heaviness that weighs us down with pain and with the fear of the unknown ahead of us, and for awhile, at least, fly in the joy of doing what we love, seeing that what we have created still has meaning?
I better stop now.
Here's the trailer for that documentary.