Maybe it was the Moony blues.
Maybe it was the ever growing angst in the country.
Maybe oxy withdrawal, though I think not that.
Maybe it was losing Colin.
Maybe it was overdoing it in the garden.
Or maybe a bit of everything.
None of that equals a hill of beans.
So why did I have such a huge meltdown?
Thursday night was bad. I suddenly felt as though I was vibrating, every nerve on end.
And then a fly arrived. 747-sized, intent on torpedoing me. I’ve said what I think of flies. They should be elsewhere.
I tried to escort it out. I tried inveigling it out.
It would not leave.
So I even resorted to that most despised of devices:
A fly swatter. Two in fact.
To no avail.
That fly became the embodiment of all the people I have encountered in 72 years that have done me wrong or somehow caused me harm and frustration.
I didn’t want to kill it.
In the end I surrendered, put my light out and it gave up and slept. I didn’t.
Not quite true. I slept enough to have more bizarre dreams.
So, yesterday: MELTDOWN.
How did it start?
In the on-going quest to create the best-possible living situation for humans and cats, now 11, we once more did some furniture moving.
The result was an overwhelming muddle. There seemed to be “stuff” everywhere and it seemed, that night, that it was all dancing around screaming at me.
Oh, it was all my stuff.
Mostly pictures. Mostly cats.
Separation anxiety. It’s a terrible thing.
Those pictures? All long-ago cats. Dead cats.
Their pictures are all I have left of them.
Do I need pictures to remember them? No.
Can I bear to put the pictures away? No.
Do I realize this is mad? Of course.
Grant understood my look, yesterday morning and wisely sought to distract me and began re-re-arranging furniture to make better sense of what we had created.
My contribution was to grab all the many (many) photographs and pile them on my bed, sorting those that would finally be put away, all the while crying my foolish eyes out.
Would you not think that after years of therapy I would be rid of this accursed anxiety? I know, basically, where it came from. I know that’s over and done.
Why has it come back to hit me so hard?
By last night, I was calm enough to feel the urge to capture the end of day which wasn’t all that different to the return, this morning:
Although this morning was misty at first:
As usual, today, I woke early and I dragged myself outside to hear the dawn chorus, mostly the local roosters calling out their overnight news to one another.
But there was one other sound that turned my head:
This little chap sounds like a 747 too, but he is welcome to buzz me anytime.
This is not an egg I had for breakfast.
It’s the waning moon.
Oh, and fly I so urged to leave? I gave it every chance and it wouldn’t go.
So in the morning Grant flattened it.