A Random Image
 

Jett Superior laid this on you on || June 21, 2012 || 6:29 pm

You sit down to write, an average day. You are drinking your customary thirty-two ounces of First Thing In The Morning water. (“Have you ever seen how quickly it perks a drooping plant? Think, then, on what it must do for the the more complex human body!”)

It’s just like it is supposed to be until it isn’t. That happens around one o’clock.

You fight until three, struggling to do in thirty minutes what you usually can in ten.

Your ridiculous sleep patterns maybe are harder on your brain now than when you were seven or seventeen or twenty-seven. You think a nap will help.

It doesn’t.

Your husband comes home from the road. He sees you and knows it is not physical. After you trade facts and observations about your days apart he says, gently, “I’ll cook dinner tonight so you can finish working.” You are grateful for a spouse who knows you are fighting, fighting and doesn’t make you fight him, too.

“Maybe this is me moving toward menopause?” you say, facing the wall, fingers tracing the branches of iron. (We can sleep in a tree bed every night! A tree bed! Imagine! you said excitedly to your husband upon finding it) “Maybe I’m not mentally ill.” You can’t look at anyone while you are saying it, not even him.

“It probably is.”
“It’s time to take some meds, I guess.”
“How long has it been?”
“Iunno? Four months. Thereabouts.”
“Well, get them in you, so they can start grabbing hold. Man, I love you.” Squeeze. Warmth. Safe places have elbows that jut outward for your protection.
“I know. I love you, too.”

He leaves. You dry swallow ten milligrams of Maybe.

You blurt, “I am written on the pages that nobody wants to see.” This is not some slog of self-pity and woe-is-me. It is what your brain is sending into every part of your being. Despite someone just looking into your face three minutes prior and saying I love you with emphasis, your brain tells you that you are written on the pages that nobody wants to see.

Today, today, even though you don’t mean to,  you are believing it.

16 worked it out »

  1. sarah piazza 6.21.2012

    i’m sorry, love. here’s hoping the turnaround comes fast.

     
  2. Kristina 6.21.2012

    Peace friend. Peace.

     
  3. Ninja Mom 6.21.2012

    It’s a shame that something so dark and painful has lead to such a beautiful description. A shame or a consolation prize.

    Hope the meds do their good work.

     
  4. Mitchell 6.21.2012

    Your brain doesn’t get to decide what we want to see and what we don’t. You should throw pine cones at it.

    Thank you for sharing you – I am thoroughly impressed that you do the way you do.

     
  5. Summer 6.21.2012

    I’m fascinated by this. I feel like this every day, and the description of the pages is breaking my heart. I’m glad you have him, and writing, and the tree bed.

     
  6. Dawn B 6.21.2012

    I’m grabbing hold of you. I want to see all your pages. Dialing the love up to 11!

     
  7. schmutzie 6.21.2012

    Give that brain whatfor, because you deserve to know the love you are given.

    Be well.

     
  8. ramble 6.21.2012

    Never believe it. Let those voices drown.

    <3

     
  9. JMH 6.26.2012

    Hey, right on. Iunno (Iunno!). It seems like that a lot for me, or at least a lot of anxiety. Because the pieces sometimes don’t click. The positive and negative ends of the batteries aren’t arranged right. Why is that? I guess that’s Nature shuffling the deck. I prefer dice. I like to play Yahtzee. I want to make sense.

     
  10. Chibi Jeebs 6.27.2012

    “It’s just like it is supposed to be until it isn’t.”

    Yes.

    I’ll look at any page you care to share. Love you, dear heart. <3

     
  11. Ginger 6.28.2012

    If therapy has taught me nothing else, it’s that we are often our own worst judges. And that our brains don’t always tell us the things that are true.

    Just try and listen to him (and us) more than that right now.

     
  12. Karen 7.2.2012

    I have just found your blog – not sure even what the jumps started, but for this post along I believe it was the Spirit who loves my soul that brought me here. You have a beautiful gift of words – I pray that you find the words, acceptance of His love, of the love of your family and community and say the words to yourself that will bring you to another day, a step closer to a knowledge of love that refuses to leave.

    My dark days bring confusion and lies, but I hang on as a “prisoner of hope”.

    Love to you my sister,
    Karen

     
  13. I understand this, I understand this, I understand this. On every level, I see you.

    We fight our way through, dont’ we?

     
  14. the muskrat 7.11.2012

    I think you’re awesome! Maybe that’ll count for something.

     
  15. Dana 7.19.2012

    Tell you what, menopause was a mind fuck for me. A complete and utter derailment.

     
  16. mcdonnellism 8.6.2012

    I know this feeling. I’m glad you have the access to the Maybe, and that the potential for some back upward spiraling lies within. You deserve those elbows, you are loved because you are wonderful (and vice versa as you know that old Rogers & Hammerstein songs goes). hugshughugshugshugs

     

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