I am trying very hard to remain cool, trust the Universe, lean into everything. I have a place and a seemingly cool new roommate (just need to wait for the landlord to confirm), and I am in a slate of candidates for a full-time job (waiting to hear back after second phone interview). I am trying to just believe what I already know — that I have been, am, and will continue to be taken care of.
There’s the moving stuff I’m still stressed about and always wondering about certain health things and Flannie in general (1). And there’s one other thing on my plate that I just need to get resolved. I’m sick of thinking about it and worrying about it and getting mad (2) about it and having fake conversations about it in my head. I don’t really want to put it out here just yet — I have to meet with some people on Thursday about it, and I’m just brain akimbo. Again, take this one, God — I clearly am not good with this sort of stuff rattling around in my brain.
I’m happy that I’ve decided to bring the blog back; I’ve forgotten how much I really like this. I’m reading at The Paper Machete this Saturday and I’m pretty excited about it. I’ve wanted to read there since I’ve heard about it, and it’s nice to be able to participate. Now, to write the damn piece! I’m also getting some spiritual salve this weekend — two Avett Brothers shows — one in Chicago on Friday and one in Indianapolis on Sunday. Again, they aren’t coming at the most opportune time, but I will get there and lose myself as I always do. I’m hoping for little drama or conflict with all the roadtripping.
I just feel like I’m literally waiting to exhale (she says, as she purposefully makes herself sigh) — I have all this stress and worry and shit floating around and it just weighs on my chest and starts to become noticeably heavy and burdensome. It takes awhile; it would be like lying down and having people put one penny at a time on you. You wouldn’t really even notice for a long time; eventually you’d come to feel the sensation of hundreds of pennies on you; and then, you’d realize it was becoming hard to breathe and that you couldn’t lift your arms or legs. I feel it’s like that; it creeps up on me.
Which is why the blog is good. Good to bring it back here and just put it out there and be honest. I’ve always been told I’m fairly good at that. Again, I find it somewhat problematic that I can shout my honesty in front of a crowd, but when it comes to personal intimacy, I pretty much suck at it. It’s actually not as fearful to do it here — I may or may not get a response, I don’t know who’s really even listening, and I can be satisfied that I said it. I think even if people do judge me and tell me about it, it’s easier to blow it off in the context of the internet than it would be if someone was weird or shitty or rude or not understanding me to my face.
So, I need to get up from my post here at the library and continue my day of errands before I head into Barnes and Noble. Be well, everyone.
(1) Flan had a second grand mal seizure the other night. It’s so bizarre and creepy and lets me know I’m utterly powerless. I’ve read about cats who have epilepsy and stuff, but I just think this is old age or a tumor somewhere or something. I just sit there, letting her seize it all out, and then am there for her when she snaps out of it. I hope she doesn’t do that when I’m not there — but I have seen her in the last few days starting to twitch in her sleep. Flan has always had “paw shakes,” but these are more pronounced and other stuff is getting sketchy, too. Her ears, her head, etc. I told my mom about it last night, and she said, “You know one of those might kill her.” I don’t know what my mom thinks I think about Flan — she has no clue that I’ve been pre-mourning her death for the better part of a decade. I said, “I *know,* that’s why I sit there and think … are you going to die right now?” I think she was taken aback that I actually know and realize that Flan is going to die. She makes comments here and there about her, and I think she is trying to get me prepared so I’m not a fucking wreck. I’m as prepared as one gets; but she also has to know when the day comes that Flan and I are no longer companions, I *will* be sad. Period. And that is all there is to it. I won’t drink or die or anything drastic, but I will be sad.
(2) My grandma used to say, “Dogs get mad; people get angry.” I will always and forever have that floating around my brain …