I hate the Pacific Time Zone. Love you guys who live here, but the time zone itself — bah. Get rid of it. It’s my 4th day in Las Vegas, and I am STILL jet-lagged. My brain is very convinced that it is indeed 1:30 in the am tomorrow instead of 11:30 in the pm tonight. And we go home on Friday, so I get to enjoy another week of sleepless nights next week.
I pick up the pen (virtually speaking) and I put it down, sentences half-finished, thoughts halted before they reach an inevitable conclusion. My google reader is screaming under the weight of unread posts. I’m three weeks behind in my classes, and yet all I can think about is where I can finding a matching set of 7 somethings for less than $10 to give all my girlfriends for Christmas. I’m avoiding everything that has any possible consequence in my life, focusing on the party that’s waiting for me this weekend and sending out invitations for another in two weeks. Parties are safe. Parties are fun. Parties let me spend hours making idle chatter with my friends about football and wine and what to wear to the company christmas shindig. Parties don’t require me to think about next year. Aught-eight has been a good year for me, in reproductive terms, and I’m not ready to let go of it yet. I’m not capable, at this point, of comprehending that I just signed up for an insurance plan to pay for infertility treatment. The idea is too big, too complicated, too fraught with emotion and strife to sink in. Sometime next year I’m going to have to deal with that, but I just … can’t right now. And I do mean “can’t”. It is not possible for me to deal with the implications at this point.
Then Niobe has to go and call me out. “… it’s impossible to remember if I was happy or just pretending to be.” I’m afraid that I’ve just been pretending to be happy. It terrifies me that I don’t know the difference anymore, that there is so much noise in my head that I can’t hear my own thoughts and that I’m afraid to put the noise down in print, to clear it out because I don’t know if I want to know what I’m really thinking. I think about writing, I think about reading, I think about calling someone, and I shy away like a dog that has been beat with a stick. If I go there, if I come here, I am going to have to face myself. I’m afraid that all I have is a tenuous hold on being okay, that I am sliding along the ledge barely keeping myself from falling back into that dark place. Because I know the darkness is still there. I can see it out of the corner of my eye, crowding in around me, ever threatening to wash over all that I am. And in the dark of the night, when I am alone with my thoughts, when I am tired and my defenses are down, I can feel it swirling around the edges.
I found this book in the bookstore the other night, it was a guided 40-day journal with prompts to choose an intention and then study yourself, to turn inward and examine your own thoughts and actions around that intention. I felt like someone had thrown me a life preserver and I felt the push back against the darkness like throwing off a coat when you walk into a warm house. And then I put it back on the shelf and walked away with my coffee. But I keep thinking about it. Just now, I went and counted — if I was to start on Saturday, I would finish the 40 days on December 31. I could start the New Year with a clean slate, if I can get the slate clean by then. With me, it’s physical and it’s emotional and it’s all connected. Mentally, I’m exhausted and my body is following suit, and I don’t like it. This time last year, I could run two miles straight. I was healthy, I was strong, I had a plan and a schedule and I was in control. Not now. Now, I’m just trying to stay standing as the waves break around my knees in the surf. I can’t seem to get my shit together long enough to pull myself out.
I find myself fantasizing about running away and starting over. That’s not healthy.
There is so much that I need to do, and my time is so precious, and yet I come home at night, make dinner and get sucked into watching bad television with manly, half-way paying attention to the internet, and just … existing. Existing sucks. There is so much better stuff to do in my life, and I keep making excuses for why I don’t do it. I actually have a list of things I want to do, separate from the 100 things list, which I also want to do, and I look at it. And I think about how much I would like to do those things. And then I don’t.
I’m scared I’m going to crack.