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Nov. 2nd, 2020 10:02 pmNot every day is going to be one for the record books, even the very dull records that I've been keeping.
Once upon a time, someone came to visit me in Western Mass and referred to my stay there as a rest cure. They meant well, I think, in that slightly mocking tone we all had in our midtwenties. (they lived in boston). Sometimes these endtimes feel like the least restful least curative rest cure I could have possibly found. If there's an aftertimes, I think I'll be restless enough to want to find some routine or meaning outside the house, which after the beast and nannying, I wasn't sure was ever going to be true again.
Not every day is going to be deathless prose or exciting calls to action, some will just be this gnawing medium-grade anxiety and I'll manage to go through some of the motions, get some of the things done and fall down on others for various reasons. I'll focus on the little things to obsess over, to try to keep myself busy enough to only have a little energy left over for the bigger ones. It doesn't work, but I'm afraid that if I stop doing trying, something even worse will happen. It's dark so early, I'm disheartened enough that it's hard to read or stitch, which are at least ways I can tell myself I'm doing a thing (as opposed to wasting time). Neither of my volunteer activities are happening tomorrow night, one meeting canceled and one thing I'm at least aware enough to know I can't offer anyone support in this moment. (I think helping others should be a way I help myself? There's a should I'm falling down on somewhere in there, I just don't know what it is right now.)
This is the way a post works, right? I wallow for a little bit and then try to end on a cheerful note, say something about tea or dogs or etsy or the like? I think today I'll maybe not spend so much time trying to find that thing to pin the post on, and instead just go to bed.
Once upon a time, someone came to visit me in Western Mass and referred to my stay there as a rest cure. They meant well, I think, in that slightly mocking tone we all had in our midtwenties. (they lived in boston). Sometimes these endtimes feel like the least restful least curative rest cure I could have possibly found. If there's an aftertimes, I think I'll be restless enough to want to find some routine or meaning outside the house, which after the beast and nannying, I wasn't sure was ever going to be true again.
Not every day is going to be deathless prose or exciting calls to action, some will just be this gnawing medium-grade anxiety and I'll manage to go through some of the motions, get some of the things done and fall down on others for various reasons. I'll focus on the little things to obsess over, to try to keep myself busy enough to only have a little energy left over for the bigger ones. It doesn't work, but I'm afraid that if I stop doing trying, something even worse will happen. It's dark so early, I'm disheartened enough that it's hard to read or stitch, which are at least ways I can tell myself I'm doing a thing (as opposed to wasting time). Neither of my volunteer activities are happening tomorrow night, one meeting canceled and one thing I'm at least aware enough to know I can't offer anyone support in this moment. (I think helping others should be a way I help myself? There's a should I'm falling down on somewhere in there, I just don't know what it is right now.)
This is the way a post works, right? I wallow for a little bit and then try to end on a cheerful note, say something about tea or dogs or etsy or the like? I think today I'll maybe not spend so much time trying to find that thing to pin the post on, and instead just go to bed.
