It’s Friday night and I am alternately watching the dog contort himself to sniff his backside and mindlessly singing along to “Besame Mucho” which is what shuffle has decided would be next for my listening pleasure. I’m not fluent in Spanish, and haven’t used it in quite a long time – so you can imagine how the singing is going.
I’m fine if I don’t think too much – my sister was over earlier and we were talking about work. I haven’t seen her in awhile, and so I was explaining that I have about six weeks left of full time work. I explained that I have quite nearly exhausted the available options right now for next steps {Paused writing this post to return an email. And now I have quite nearly exhausted every option. One more email to write.} I could feel my eyes starting to fill up with stupid tears while I was talking to her – changed the subject, swooped up my niece, and tried to re-focus my thinking elsewhere.
It’s Friday and a weekend is here and oh, I am so relieved for a weekend – but that means that another week has swooped by and oh, they can’t all go by this fast.
I feel my brain getting caught in the hamster wheel and it’s the thinking that stresses me out and I really need to stop thinking.
I came home from work, pushed myself hard on the treadmill. The exertion felt good – something tells me that this is a far better use of my anxious energy than staring at the wall thinking of every worst case scenario (one train of thought today had me and the girls living in a refrigerator carton on the side of a road somewhere – a ridiculous thought, because even if things ever got that bad, cardboard living isn’t in the cards because there are other options). But that’s how my brain goes.
I hate my brain sometimes.
The same brain that gives me creativity and words and vision – the things about me that I love because I am creative can just as quickly be things that bring me misery because that imagination is an equal-opportunity imagination.
I keep thinking that writing it down, that blogging it will help. That getting it out of my head and out into the ether takes it from being some concept that keeps my brain churning and forces me to realize that it’s either not so bad or it is but that it won’t be so bad always.
Am I calmer now having written? Maybe.
The dog is no longer chasing his butt.
Shuffle is now playing The Civil Wars.
I am thinking of curling up in bed, seeing how many episodes of Breaking Bad I can watch before my brain gives up on me. There is nothing I can do right this minute to alter my situation. Absolutely nothing. (Unless you’re reading this and have taken pity on me and want to hire me to write everything for you ever.)
That’s what I have to remember. There’s worry – reasonable and irrational. And it just doesn’t make sense to let my brain run away with me right now.
I think I may have just talked myself out of my tree.
For now.
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