Stories from a life in progress.


Early yesterday morning I dreamed that I was furious.

I don't remember why. It doesn't really matter why, because the main thing is that I was screaming mad, and I had to be polite for the sake of the people I was around, and it made me even madder.

I was disturbed when I woke up, but I didn't have long to think about it because Smiley Boy came to dig me out of bed and have breakfast as he usually does.

After breakfast I closed myself in my room with my notebook, and discovered that I was still angry. I said some vicious, terrible, mean things to my notebook (honestly, my pen should have its mouth washed out with soap), and then tossed myself in bed and cried. And then I fell back asleep. Then Smiley Boy dug me back out for lunch, and I trudged around until time to leave for my ordinary counseling appointment, at which I vented at my counselor and cried myself into a headache and gave up talking when I couldn't stand crying anymore.

It appears I'd been holding more tension than I was aware of.

I'm not surprised, frankly. Not surprised at the tension, nor at my unawareness of it. It's been three solid weeks since I had any kind of a real break, the kind of break I find necessary for my mental health: time spent all by myself and not on the clock in any way. Family time is good, but family time can also be fraught. I've been holding on to too many of the stresses, because without time alone I can't shed them. And it's hard to tell that I'm doing it. It's always hard for me to tell.

Time to take care of myself. It's time to regain balance. I have work to do, but it will just have to wait. There are people around, but my door is closed and they will do without me for today. I can't do a blessed bit of good for anyone if I can't do this good for myself, to give myself the time and space I need regardless of what anyone else needs or expects or wants. Today I am off the clock. Tomorrow we'll see, but I'm not promising anything to anybody. It's time to care about myself.