anxiety

On Not Crying

I’m dying so I change my hat. I was going to wear the straw one with the lavender grosgrain band but I leave that one on the bed and wear the wool one instead. The one Delaney’s widow got for me from Ireland because it had to be from Ireland and because Delaney was Irish.

Laney’s been a year dead, and some change. I’m thinking I’m joining him, although I have new glasses to pick up next Wednesday and I really want to get my kid before this whole exeunt thing. No—really—I’m dying. It’s 10 o’clock and I’m supposed to pick Finn up around three. We snuggled in bed this morning and I haven’t figured out yet just what’s wrong with me. But—yes—I’m certainly dying and there’s some twenty minutes of freeway I need to navigate. So I rest up the hours it takes to get rested up and because I want my kid. It’s all very logical; I set my alarm. I really really need my kid and that’s my goal.

It’s vacation, but I haven’t slept in yet. Meds, holy shit. I’ve been warned about the six-week thing, and I’m on my back. I pick an old dress from Jenn’s bottom drawer and it still smells like the thrift store . It’s what I slept with all day. It’s orange and she fits it again, perfectly. This May marks twenty years. I’m not in trouble, and I’m perfectly sober, and I just can’t figure out what’s wrong with me except for this whole dying thing. I still wake up and plan to keep doing so.

I can’t explain that I’m hungry but hate eating currently. Don’t want coffee. I can’t decide if the fan is off or on; it’s off and it takes me two hours to turn it back on. I’m not depressed. I drive impeccably and I choose roads that make me happy. I know I’m working through something.

“I need to lay down.” And Jenn is understanding.

I get my kid and I’m so happy driving home. I can’t help but keep from not crying.

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