Worry first about getting something on paper.
So Saturday evening, I lost my guts to my newly purchased twee bathroom trash can six times. I was a horror story of fluids gone awry. I was in misery: a quiet, determined, real misery. It has to have been at least five or more years since the last bout of food poisoning and I’d sort of gone back to the iron gut state of mind so while my desire to eat out was running amok, I didn’t think twice about the rather goopy eggs or the weird butter on the pancakes. I was turning into an food vacuum that couldn’t be swayed from hoovering up anything so long as it was on a plate that came with a price tag. And that evening, I got something I suppose I secretly was after: a hard stop.
My body pulled every emergency break there was. I’d lay in bed, writhing about in discomfort, wondering if I could just ignore it, and then I would have the deeply ingrained, instinctive thought that…no…I couldn’t. And away I went for hours on end. Back and forth. I woke up and had terrible shivers and fever throughout all of Sunday, my sister even going and buying me a whole first aid kit full of ginger ale and saltines and powerade. The world got real glassy. My opinions started to melt into a single hazy space that surrounded me, my thoughts went in there, too. All that remained were the habits of computing and holding out longer than the pain, keeping the fluids in, the covers up. But if I thought anything, I kept telling myself I’d just get up and go to work on Monday because that seemed reasonable.
However, today came and I felt weak enough and dumb enough that I arbitrarily called off. Emailed off. Whatever it is. My counterparts emailed me eagerly asking to help, to let me rest. So I just didn’t go to work today, despite answering emails and doing enough to keep myself from ODing wholly on Dragon Age Let’s Plays and My Cat from Hell episodes on YouTube.
And now, now I’ve done one load of laundry just so I have some clothes to wear and I’ve started the dishwasher. I’ve eaten a sleeve of saltines and drunk some water and the ginger ale and some powerade. I really wish I could come back to life. I kind of feel the fugue state must be broken eventually and I’m a little bit petrified of my actual life and taking back ownership of it so I am floating. Writing this, I think, is a small step towards breaking the bubble. I haven’t been doing this and it’s bugging the hell out of me.
I am ready for therapy – which should happen this week. I am ready for everyone and everything to move an inch in any direction, preferably ahead. I am ready to take off this flannel and chenille combination and just try a life.