So when little kids who have a lot of creativity are really really good at scaring the bejeezus out of themselves because they can so clearly see the made-up creatures they have conjured... this is stressful. Real stress caused by imaginary monsters created by the child.
I am also quite good as an adult at causing real stress from made-up monstrosities. Like assuming that when people are asleep it is because they are trying to avoid me. Or when someone sighs it is because I did something wrong. Or the fact that I misplaced an item means that I should be fired from my job.
As if a single missed stitch destroys an entire sweater.
These are all the kinds of things that I really hoped had just magically gone away. Because on the one hand I really do think I am ten kinds of awesome. But then sometimes I wonder if the awesome part is the imaginary thing. And my ridiculous worries are actually real.
I burned my wrist on Thanksgiving. Now there is a comet-shaped blister just above the wrong-looking scar. I seem to spend a lot of time staring at my left wrist. This is the wrist where I want to get a tattoo. Of a turtle.
To remind me to
(slow down, get it? tee hee.)
This morning I was already in an irrational bad mood based on imaginary stories about real people. And I decided to clean the living room. Only it was clear that I wasn't just cleaning the living room. Spouse called me on that.
Happily, the frenzy only lasted until I had to leave in the morning.
You'd think with all my hypomanic cleaning that i would have the tidiest, most clean house ANYWHERE. Only I don't. Because the way I clean is not productive. It is destructive.
My "cleaning" doesn't follow any kind of pattern. It involves organizational schemes that make sense only to me and then change the following day. It makes use of countless bins that have things sorted in them but I leave them long enough that I no longer remember the thread that holds the items together--
Things that are too small? Summer clothes? Items that are counted with the Japanese counting-word mai? Things to store? Things to donate? Things to throw away? A box of random things that need to be sorted? Dirty clothes? Clean clothes? A top layer of clothes covering the seedy underbelly of legos and library books?
Grateful Crap: my job, my boss, my students and planning for next semester (no, really. super excited about this. just got word of grant money for revamping curriculum with my coteacher)
confessed to my freakishly ridiculous worries at the time I was worrying them (which made them go away much faster than if I let them fester and grow and create little baby worries through cellular division)
I have yet to figure out how to put pictures on my site since updating the operating system of my computer. Dang, I type fast.
Okay, and tomorrow I need to pick up my prescription for venlafaxine, because I am told that it is not the kind of drug that I want to miss. And I really don't want to miss any of my drugs. I haven't filled my pill minder yet because I need the orange skinny pills that go in all the am slots.
Quaker, teacher, parent,