Theoretically that's supposed to help me get through this moment. The trouble is, I want to blip this moment. To get through it without identifying it, in all its discomfort and pain and crusty crankiness. But the only way out is through. I hate that.
How can I tell him again and again I don't want to go out to Reading this weekend? That being out there depresses me, to say nothing of the four hour drive each way. I have told him, and he was stunned, because he had never realized the trouble I was having, with those memories, and that anxiety. But these months later he's already forgotten.
And I'm tired. Not sleepy, not needing sleep or up too long or needing to catch up or nappish. Just tired. Done, drained, empty, in need of refueling, thud. Need to nurse my small self, this one-sprout seedling, without using up what little store of emotional reserve I have.
Not to mention I have the damn dog. The dog whom I love dearly, whom I miss when I don't see her for days....but it costs a lot, emotionally, psychically, to take care of an 87-pound being who misses her constant companion. (I should know. I don't weigh all that much more than she.) I want to wash my kitchen floor, lounge in front of the fire, pay the rent which was due last week but we managed to fuck up jointly, do nothing, do yoga, be Sara and absorb my tranquil surroundings.