A Cambric Shirt



I hate when I don’t feel well because I freak myself out about it so much.  I try and not feel well and I try and talk myself out of it and so anything that is off feels like evidence of imminent death.  Every story I’ve heard, every recent dental struggle, suddenly has become my own. It is not excessively painful.  It is just painful.  I am just aware that it is not right.

I know it is important to take care of.  This was exactly what happened the first time.  Sort of.  And sort of what happened the time before except that time I got it checked and then it went away on its own.  But now it’s in my head, so to speak, the worry.  And I’m starting to find myself willing to go even if they’re going to talk about the wisdom tooth/teeth extraction and that’s spinning me into a bit of a whirlwind conceptually even if it doesn’t remotely hurt on that side right now at all.  So.  Okay.  I’m just starting to find myself capable of being an adult about the issue and dealing with it, but then I’m deflated about the work dental insurance and if I can’t use that, it’s a huge financial deal and I can’t just hi-dilly-ho to the dentist and rack up a bill that I can’t easily pay.

Maybe part of that is just a delaying tactic on the whole “deal with the hard places” wherein I have to go to the boss and say, hey, I don’t think I have insurance…can you check?  And then if I don’t, then, figure out about getting some and then deal with this idle thought that hell is going to break loose if I get myself taken care of.

And I’m now on vacation.  Sort of.  So I don’t know.

I’m pushing a lot these days and suddenly, I find it hard as fuck to push.  I gotta call my mom.  I texted before the test and heard nothing and I have this idea in my head, that fits so neatly into the drama of everything going wrong now, that it’s because something is so bad that nobody’s talking about it.

My sister made biscuits.  Cheddar biscuits and I am wanting to sink into the sheets and fight my way through these short-term blues.  Just loll my head around and moan and twitch and eventually crash into a sleep laden with dream.  The hypochondria is the worst.  It’s the worst.  If you can sleep, you can at least stop wondering if it’s the last sleep and you are just idly typing away your last post, laughing to yourself at how silly you are when Death and his unforgiving scythe is hanging out in the periphery of your view.

I know that it’s just an aggregation of aggravation.  It is not my life or me or a new paradigm.  It’s just asking me for more than to watch it happen and that’s okay.  Sometimes I like to be engaged in the business of being.