Between a sudden onslaught of relatives and getting sick again, there’s been little time or energy to do much here. I’m just getting over the worst of it now, having reduced my tissue usage to less than half a box a day. And what timing! The last minute scramble for the perfect Christmas eve celebration is starting and the yelling and cleaning have begun. There is a white sheet of snow outside, and good cooking inside.
Hope everyone has a pleasant holiday!
Life has been odd lately…quietly tumultuous. Something to do with the combination of grey weather, my period coming, and my current book, The Wind-up Bird Chronicle, that I am reading day by day whenever I go to the bookstore. It’s been a long time coming, picking up a Murakami novel, long lauded and highly recommended to me by close friends since last year.
I keep putting things off, including writing here. There’s a block I’ve found hard to work against, something I always fight when I’m home. I never feel like doing anything, even though there is so much to do (laundry, website work for a client, holiday presents to think up, find/make, and wrap, an upcoming art show to plan for, cleaning up the basement, cleaning up in general for when relatives visit in less than a week, guitar to practice, books to read, a brother to pick up from school, running and lifting at the gym, car checkups for the winter…). Did I leave anything out?
And as per usual, the book, the brother, and the gym have taken priority. With everything else a constant weight in the back of my mind, though, it’s hard to feel motivated to post anything here. Not that I write the most coherent posts this time of month, anyway. Mostly I am still silently fuming over the fuckup of a breakup a few months back, still feeling the sting to the ego at how easily he let me go – enhanced by my period, when I am emotionally rollercoasting to begin with. Emotionally rocky and sex-deprived.
I keep swallowing it down, though, all of it. I don’t let it show, not willing to give in to the hormones. I just keep swallowing it into the pit of my stomach. I just hope it doesn’t explode on me some day.
Drudged up an interesting memory driving home the other day. I have always believed in my own ability to rationalize my own fears to death, if I think they don’t make sense. And my innate fears fascinate me and make me want to push their limits. Thus I rock climb even though I have a fear of heights and touch spiders even though I have a fear of arachnids.
But when I was little and hadn’t started overanalyzing everything yet(that would come with puberty), I remember I had this potent fear of my mom getting in a car accident whenever I wasn’t in the car with her. If she was late coming home from work, my mind immediately panicked at the thought of her never making it back, rather than reasoning that she had to stay late at work, or that traffic was particularly bad, or that she had stopped to buy groceries on the way home.
I never told anyone what I was thinking, though perhaps my dad got an inkling of it by watching the way I would pace from the living room to the kitchen, looking out the windows at the street. And it was always with an immense feeling of relief that I would see car headlights heading down our driveway and the familiar shape of my mom’s car pulling in.
My mom often worked late and went grocery shopping, and yet I could never shake that anxiety once 6pm had come and gone and she wasn’t home. I’m not sure where this came from, or what made something like that develop. Perhaps even then, at the age of 8 or 9, I was starting to show symptoms of an anxiety disorder.
Not sure why, but I really wanted to get this written down – this memory of fear and anxiety at the potential loss of my mother.