i post a blog entry post-haste, trill over it with a friend, take it down the next morning, apologize to everyone for deleting it.
i look up old songs, experiment with the 'link' feature. post a song, take it down again.
the hairs on my back stand; i feel hot and creepy crawly all over.
i flirt half-heartedly with a friend from across the globe, skip around his nuances, thinking i'll be alone forever.
i begin to read a book, my second in three days, and doze off.
i awake. i stare at the ceiling. i am paralyzed. i don't know whether to laugh or cry. maybe i should've accepted that invite to the satsang tonight, i tell myself. if a bunch of meditating vegans chanting praises to shiva can't cheer me up, nothing can.
but no. i don't want to go out. a close friend's birthday party tonight is all the socialization i'm willing to go through.
i text two friends, tell them i feel the black dog descending, and one calls. i need jobs, where are the jobs, i cry. i was fine last week with all the deadlines. where are they?!
it's the weekend, chillax, he says.
i've been chillaxing for the past three days, gadamit! i need to work.
well, there are good days and there are not-so good days, he says, and distracts me by telling me the Tale of Two B's. that gets me laughing.
i eat a late lunch. after, i stare at the table and realize i didn't eat any rice. i think of my body, gone to flab. will any man ever think me desirable again? i wonder to myself. i think of bringing a date to the party tonight, but already the idea bears me down with fatigue. stress. effort. stress. effort. futility.
i sit and stare at my newly-painted nails. cherry red.
i write this and stare out the window, and again feel the paralysis of loss whisper up my toes, my ankles, my calves. my eyes swelter and i am reminded of an earlier me, almost seven years ago, pregnant with the twins and waiting for my ex-husband to come home.
if he comes home, then everything would be all right, i remember thinking as i stared out a curtain-less window, willing him to come home, his name a mantra on my lips. turn on your phone and just come home.
how strong i was then. i'm not as strong now, i think. then, i held the grenade to my chest and let it explode, allowing the shrapnel to become part of me over the years. no one knew how deeply they were lodged, or how many pieces there were.
or maybe it's not about strength. i don't know.
i am in the sun's direct glare as i write this. my thighs and neck turn hot and sticky and my irritation at the sound of a message popping up on facebook is turning into a roaring rage i try to swallow. i should move out of the heat.
8 years ago