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I shall tell myself that I am conserving my energy. There's a family vacation coming up—my maternal grandparents's 60th wedding anniversary, and nearly the entire extended family (about 20 of us) are flying down to L.A. and setting sail from there on a week-long cruise off the Gulf of Mexico. For their 50th anniversary we did an Alaskan cruise, and I have to remind myself that this is not the same thing: Everyone's a decade older, for one. I won't be lodging with cousins. In fact Devon is coming along (for which I am very grateful), so we will have our own room and I will have all the privacy for all the people-free time that I shall need. I'm bringing books so that I can catch up on reading, and it will be a nice computer-and-internet free vacation. But I am nervous, of course—I feel underinformed and unprepared for the trip (which I'm not, but that doesn't dismiss the feeling), but more than that I'm just nervous about spending an extended time away from home and around people, for I take to neither well.
Thus: I am conserving my energy. Let that be the reason for, or one of the reasons for, or at least the benefit of the fact that I've barely been able to look five feet beyond my nose this last week: I have been curled into myself, trying to stay distracted, unwilling to go out or to socialize, quiet and vacant. And a little depressed, and a little anxious, but I'm pretty good at dealing with these things—they are quite familiar. I feel a little more concerned about this deadness, emotional and mental; this torpid week.
But this morning—from the early false dawn to the overcast silversun glow of midday—was beautiful. I lay blanket-swathed under the cool air of the A/C (the right kind of cool air, on my skin, thick and creamy and white; this was that kind of cool air). I slept on and off, long naps, the kind of sleep which doesn't make me anxious but rather restful, where the dreams are closer to daydreams—rambling thoughts and sweet, senseless stories that I tell myself. When wakeful, I began a book that I've been procrastinating for various reasons, and found it was beautiful. The house was sleeping, the world outside was quiet, and the white noise of the computer fan and A/C smoothed over what little noise there was. It's rare that I can lay around for long hours, that I can drift in and out of sleep, that I can read or not read, dream or not dream. I desire to, but I can never calm and empty my mind enough to; if I try I get caught up in frantic thought cycles, I get restless, I need noise or distraction or a concrete activity. I hate that about myself—my anxiety is mild compared both to what others suffer and the severity of my other issues, but I hate it more than the depression, than the agoraphobia: those disorders are me, more often than not; the anxiety I've never been able to integrate or own, and it feels like it keeps me from myself.
So perhaps there is a blessing to this deadness, this stillness. Perhaps it's what allows me to be still and calm. And if that is the case, then I'm thankful for it—for the sake of this morning. And before long, we shall see if I have indeed been doing myself the good of conserving energy for the future.
Thus: I am conserving my energy. Let that be the reason for, or one of the reasons for, or at least the benefit of the fact that I've barely been able to look five feet beyond my nose this last week: I have been curled into myself, trying to stay distracted, unwilling to go out or to socialize, quiet and vacant. And a little depressed, and a little anxious, but I'm pretty good at dealing with these things—they are quite familiar. I feel a little more concerned about this deadness, emotional and mental; this torpid week.
But this morning—from the early false dawn to the overcast silversun glow of midday—was beautiful. I lay blanket-swathed under the cool air of the A/C (the right kind of cool air, on my skin, thick and creamy and white; this was that kind of cool air). I slept on and off, long naps, the kind of sleep which doesn't make me anxious but rather restful, where the dreams are closer to daydreams—rambling thoughts and sweet, senseless stories that I tell myself. When wakeful, I began a book that I've been procrastinating for various reasons, and found it was beautiful. The house was sleeping, the world outside was quiet, and the white noise of the computer fan and A/C smoothed over what little noise there was. It's rare that I can lay around for long hours, that I can drift in and out of sleep, that I can read or not read, dream or not dream. I desire to, but I can never calm and empty my mind enough to; if I try I get caught up in frantic thought cycles, I get restless, I need noise or distraction or a concrete activity. I hate that about myself—my anxiety is mild compared both to what others suffer and the severity of my other issues, but I hate it more than the depression, than the agoraphobia: those disorders are me, more often than not; the anxiety I've never been able to integrate or own, and it feels like it keeps me from myself.
So perhaps there is a blessing to this deadness, this stillness. Perhaps it's what allows me to be still and calm. And if that is the case, then I'm thankful for it—for the sake of this morning. And before long, we shall see if I have indeed been doing myself the good of conserving energy for the future.
