The fascinating thing, if I can back away from the emotions themselves, is how I describe them.
Choking, drowning, smothering, pushing me headfirst into a cement curb – these aren’t experiences I’ve ever had – thank whomever – and I don’t physically lose the ability to breathe, see or live.
And yet, the phrase “moving like molasses in January” was coined, it seems, for days like today, when talking myself into hanging up three tee shirts, putting on shoes or taking a towel off the floor are herculean.
I don’t feel desperate, gasping or broken. I am not so sad I can’t see, but I’m the physical embodiment of “been down so long, down don’t bother me.”
Down would be nice. An improvement.
The worst part? I’m in love. I’m madly, happily, disgustingly in love.
I’m making progress on life goals I let lie dormant for too long.
I sleep next to the person I want to spend my life with. Sister mercy, I want to create other people with this man. From scratch!
I am (what feels like) spitting distance from really tackling my chronic maladies and beating them back into the hell from whence they came.
I even lost three pounds.
And yet, the prospect of doing the laundry – which I have always enjoyed (that’s another why-am-I-psychotic post) – overwhelms me, sends me into the corner of the only sweatshirt still big enough to be comfortable and leaves me begging the dog for affection.
But they do say what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, and while I’d slap the cliché off the face of whatever bitch actually came up with that phrase, I can’t help but hope it’s true.
I could use some strong right now.