Don't tell me things are starting to turn around. Part of my horoscope for this week:
Any artistic talent you have will come to light this next weekend.
I know this sounds promising, but I'm in a mood today so I can take it one of two ways.
First, the most positive spin would be that my creative juices will again begin to flow. I will finally start feeling normal.
OR... any artistic talent could mean that there is only the smallest thread of creativity left and once it comes to light it will shrivel up and die like the Wicked Witch of the West in the Wizard of Oz.
I told you I was in a mood. I haven't slept well in a couple of nights. Two nights ago I woke up at 3:00 am for no other reason than I had to pee. When I settled back in bed under the covers, the song "Jessie's Girl" started running through my head. I don't even like the song. I've never liked the song. I don't know the lyrics other than "I wish that I had Jessie's girl." Over and over and over. I tried hard to override it with my silent mantra Quiet Mind. I'd repeat it in my head over and over, but I wish that I had Jessie's girl crept back in. The battle finally wore me out and I fell back to sleep sometime around 4:45 am.
Last night was a little better. Awake at 2:30 am, but thank God, No Jessie's girl. Just a million things going through my head, none of which had any relevance to anything. Don't forget to print the new signs for the Clothes Closet and Food Pantry in the morning. Don't forget to write the check for the car payment. Remember to buy fennel for the soup Sunday. It's all on the damn list. I wrote it all down yesterday. Why am I going through the list in my head? More Quiet mind, quiet mind, quiet mind. I think I finally fell back to sleep about 5:00 am.
I know it's the frustration that raises my adrenalin and keeps me from falling back to sleep. Sometimes, even when I can manage to quiet my brain activity, I hear night noises. Joe snoring at the end of the bed, which sounds more like a whimper. If Tom's lying on his back, he'll snore softly, then snort when he turns to either side. I hear the branches of the two crepe myrtles scrape against the window screen in the wind. I hear the house creak. I hear the wind chimes hanging from the back patio cover tinkling in the breeze.Then at 4:30 or so I hear the newspaper delivery person stop at two houses across the street.
Sometimes I think it would just be better to get up, sit in the living room and read a book. But I don't. I never do. I just lie there quietly, eyes closed but fully awake, dreading how I am going to feel the next day. And that starts the cycle all over again.
In morning, I hear Tom make coffee first, then put his bowl of oatmeal in the microwave, so I stumble out of bed, pull on some pants and a long sleeve shirt, wet my hair slightly to tame the faux-hawk and shuffle out to the kitchen. "Good morning darling," Tom says. I manage a civil, "Good morning", too, but all I want is a cup of hot coffee.