Paraphrasing from a recent TED talk I heard: The energy it takes to get you out of a warm bed into a cold room is the exact same energy required to change your life.
I heard this two days ago and still hit the snooze button until the last of the last possible moments before the hellfire and threat of unemployment finally rousted me from my agitated half-slumber. This morning, at least, I found a way to get myself moving at 6:15am and in that pre-dawn hour, get out the door with enough time to swipe the massive drifts of snow from my car and get to work by 7:30am for an event that in no way required me to be present. But here I am, with that extra half-hour of work time under my belt and enough positive energy to start writing this now.
I want the time tonight. To do taxes, to think, to write something else, to deal with some true truths.
Therapy was today. And after rushing to get myself out and there, it was sort of this agonizing, powdery exploration of the basic terrain of my heart. Stomping in the dry, musty fields of teenage hopes and dreams. Trying to excavate and tamp down at the same time. To circumnavigate it all and yet not move a foot.
I’m so confused. I answer the phone almost with a weird feeling of self-awareness. Of falling for the ol’ three-card monte. Just enough vigor on his part, just enough exhaustion on mine and suddenly, he’s crazy about me. Thrilled and desperate for me, wild about me. Rapturously moonstruck over me. For 30-40 minutes, I am entirely convinced that I have it all wrong. I am his and he is mine and all the things one thinks when one is cooed over and the center of attention. Even in my terrible mood, I feel immediately beholden to his better mood. I feel silly and girly and cared about and chosen and selected and accepted and flattered. Ultimately, flattered by the intensity of the whole intimacy thing. Eventually, I say I can’t work on the writing project until this weekend, he says no problem.
We hang up.
I think, beneath the roar of the heater, about how my therapist told me to think about things – about the things I’m choosing not to think about – and I feel in this moment like I’m trying to take a sobriety test. I go back to the usual rack of tabs that await me, including FB, and see the same post that was driving me mad last night. I see at the bottom, and there’s a comment indicating he finds this woman a cool drink of water. An hour’s passed. Or something. One can register these things lightly or heavily as one chooses.
Sigh. All of which is within his purview, I suppose. All of which is in his remit as a person on this earth who has no commitments to me. She’s as far away as I am. She’s surrounded by heaving, turgid masses, of men, each of which appears to be hoping to be chosen, in a casual, text-based way. She’s probably a real human being with feelings, thoughts, personality – about which, in this moment, I’m electing not to give a shit. It’s all a game. Nothing matters and the longer I hold onto hope, the longer I stand in the fire.
I re-read the first sentence of this post and would like to dive into the sea. The frozen, vortex-locked, endless sea.