I’m listening to “Weekends” by The Perishers in an effort to boost my mood before I go to sleep. Since it’s only Monday, I’m not sure a pretty ballad about the coming weekend is the pick-me-up I was hoping for when I clicked “Play”.
Half an hour ago, I was fine, but then I realized that my new bathrobe is too big and has to be returned. After that, I saw my desk and its piles of papers. I tripped over a wastebasket. I cut my hand. I broke a candlestick. R set a menu on fire. I threw away something I need.
In every case, I’m just inches away from everything working out just fine. Some nights those inches are the difference between a peaceful sleep and the nightmares about being left behind, crying inconsolably, and being ignored.
This week I don’t want anything to happen. I don’t want to have to do anything. I don’t want to go to work or to the grocery store or the bank. I don’t want to talk to anyone about anything. I don’t want to bruise my shin, scrape my chin, or dislocate my rib. I don’t want to hear about anyone’s successes or failures or read any news about someone winning or someone losing. I don’t want to know about lost pets or natural disasters. I don’t want to watch soap operas. I don’t want to pretend to be cheerful or talk about being sad. I want nothing to happen. Is that too much to ask for? Just for a few days.
On this day last year, I was one day out of Pittsburgh. R and I boarded a flight to Scotland to walk in the rain and try to recover. I guess it’s no wonder I feel tired.