I am an egg, fragile, libel to crack. The slightest thing, the slightest little thing. I wake up feeling fine, then the stress of dealing with the dog, the pots and pans, just too much. I just called my doctor. She will probably want me to take a rescue drug like Seroquel, which I am just about ready to do. But I keep doing things with my tongue, I keep clicking my breath and grinding my teeth. I feel like I need to take a heavy duty tranquilizer and sleep through the next week. Announcing—the girl who slept through Christmas. No one could wake her up. No one could make her cry. She is frozen over and so full of guilt all the blood of Christ will never make her clean. It has always been this way.
I told myself early this morning that I should do something every day—something that I want to do, and something that I need to do. But I just can’t bear to go to the grocery store today. I just can’t. But there are the cats. There are the boys—James especially. There are always those people with their eyes looking into me, asking of me, asking of me. It is always this way.
I want to go to the gym and get into the water, but I can’t imagine getting there. I want to walk around the track. I want to be left alone, alone, alone. I am a furry beast, well-fed, and winter is here.