There seem to be holes in my mind…Holes so large that entire trains of thought go roaring through without leaving so much as a synaptic trace. I know intellectually that my confusion comes from preoccupation, distraction, grief, and sleep deprivation. Emotionally I feel like there are holes in my brain and I am leaving a trail of unexpressed thought splattered across the Southwest.
Thank Heaven for books that tell you what normal is. I have never appreciated normalcy nearly so much. This is normal. This is okay. The books don’t get around to saying when it isn’t okay any more and when one has crossed the line between normal and truly wacked. I suppose that would be diagnosis more than self help. You have to have a license for diagnosis.
Just when I get used to sleeping more than two hours at a time, drugs or no, my head revolts and forces my eyes open. There are no orders for more drugs in the middle of the night. I read the descriptions on all my scripts–some are addiction risks–I don’t really want to take them as prescribed, much less play doctor with their timing and dosage. Addiction is one thing I know I can do without.
I wake in the night and reach for Lane. I listen for the more recent cadence of the pump that subtly and noisily changed the pressure in his matress pad. The slight and constant movement meant it was easier to keep him free of bed sores. It was a distracting helper and soothing in its constancy. I find myself looking for things that are soothing and things that are constant. Lane isn’t here–oh, I remember–heavy sigh, catch my breath, sniff back a sob, and go on to the next thought. What the Hell am I going to do?
Bread and butter is a constant soother. I would have expected cookies and milk but toast with butter melting in golden pools and rivulets seem to grease the constant grinding more effectively. I’d rather wallow in the butter than the pain. That is only partly true. I rather not wallow at all.
Tonight I went to see a silly movie with friends. Confessions of a Shopaholic is not going to win a thing at Cannes and Sundance would laugh it off the mountain. I have practiced retail therapy. I know that for a moment, in the moment between the wish and the purchase, there is a feeling of power and control. There are few other moments so certain these days. I try to keep my therapy to dollar stores and thrift boutiques. I don’t always succeed. Lane would have hated this chick flick. He would have teased me about the lack of action, pathos, and believability. I would love to have Lane tease me.
When I sat to write, I had a well defined thought about losing great hunks of memory, intention, and motivation between concept and commencement. I digressed, again. A shiny object caught my eye and, like the six-year-olds, I chased it down and, again, my attention lapsed.
I am becoming adept at writing lists and making pile of things I have to do. Some things have consequences attached to forgetfulness. Swiss cheese for brains only holds so long as an excuse. I wonder how long that is? When will “Get over it” replace “Poor dear?” The perfectionist/pragmatist in my head is already screaming for return to predictability. But I cannot predict when that might come.
