Crying in the cheese aisle, and it's been a while.
There are days, many many days, where I see my future life unfold before me in a glorious long, deep, bright haze. Unknowable, except for its existence. Its probable existence.
And there are days, like today, when that lovely haze murks up, promises nothing. Nothing beyond putting my hands out in front of me and feeling, feeling, without knowing how far I can go.
So, deep in the murk, I abandon the thought of groceries. I leave the market through the sparkling produce section, and into the rain. I check my phone. I'd sent an SOS ten minutes prior, but it's rush hour and everyone is likely on the subway. I should go home, I should go home. Cry in the shower. I get on the train.
All this brought on by a little pain in my back. It feels muscular, probably a strain from my recent stint at the gym, or tendonitis from a too large! too heavy! pocketbook. (Pockabook, is how I say it.)
All this brought on by the last two years. There is nothing that is "oh, it's nothing," anymore. It all can be a hideous something. Something that kills.
Maybe you think me melodramatic, but this is my head in this moment. It. Never. Goes. Away. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Especially when other things are good. Hubristically good. Happy, not fighting, new opportunities. Not feeling sick. Looking nice. It lurks there, in those places.
Four bars for a moment underground, and the texts come through, and I'm crying again. Where are you? Let's meet. Call me. I cry because I love these girls. So, so much.
I tell them I'm okay, nearly home now, seeing the doctor by chance anyway tomorrow. I know it's probably nothing, but these tears don't come a place of knowing, a place of facts. They come from a place that's dark and hazy, recalled as if in a dream, except that it was/is my life.
I remind myself that this is, historically, a hard time for me. Multiple freakouts in two previous Octobers. I should have expected this.
I say this so you know that it always lurks. Those lucky enough to be classified as no evidence of disease (and it is LUCK, not gumption or positivity or strength or bravery, but fucking luck, some of the time anyway) spend lots of time in the nice haze. But the haze is still the haze, changeable and obscure. Terrifying or comforting.
Most people are afraid to die, but don't think about it much. I'm afraid to die, and sometimes I think about it much. I'm not alone in this. So please be gentle and kind, and try to understand.
I'm okay now, I really am. I'm with my dog and I'll take a bath, and wash it out of my hair, like my grandma used to say. There will be benzos, and fancy beef jerky, and bergamot oil in the steaming water.