Monday’s drive in was rough. There wasn’t any traffic, no construction, but I was already anxious about the repair estimate. Anxiety breeds more anxiety, and that just results in everything being a gateway to remembering things that my mind won’t let me forget, bringing everything back and to the forefront.
In this case, it was Rupert Holmes and his fucking piña colada song.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s catchy as all hell, and poppy and upbeat. But then you listen to the lyrics, and it goes from being a cute song about finding love in a personal ad to a couple who can’t talk about their problems and decide to cheat on each other instead of having an adult conversation about how they’re feeling. All I think when I hear it now is “I’m living this life and it is most definitely not a poppy upbeat world to be in.”
So. Back to the drive.
I’m trying to sing it – I’M TAKING IT BACK, DAMN IT – and end up changing the station to something that doesn’t involve a Craigslist encounter. Unfortunately, my mind wanders to the darker places again, and I start the familiar “picking” at everything. It’ll be just a random idea, tacked on like some flaming caboose on the ass end of my train of thought. I think I want to make a giant yogurt and fruit bowl for lunch, that would be fucking delicious, and, OH HAI, REMEMBER WHEN YOU ARE NOTHING BUT STRAWBERRIES AND BANANAS FOR A FULL WEEK AFTER YOU FOUND OUT? Then I pick at the scar, because that’s a familiar feeling, and God forbid I feel anything other than that familiar throb of hurt. That might mean happiness, and happiness is unfamiliar and scary at this point.
Later, texting between tasks at work, he asked how I was doing. “I mentally black swanned myself. Remember that part in Black Swan when she keeps ripping the hangnail back way up her finger? That’s what I do mentally. I just pick too far.”
Train kept a-rolling.
I want to get off Mr Bones Wild Ride.
