i woke this morning, having a night of sleep so blissful that i woke actually feeling rested. i can count on my hands the number of times this has happened in my adult years.
i say, “adult years” because i never heard the words “bed time” for real til i was 31. Before Barbara, the nice ex, “bed time” meant to go to bed and read all night. That was my favorite part of the day. i’d often wake with text books, medical dictionaries, and books sprawled all over my bed. i still spread in out in bed, as i am now, in our queen size bed. Just my bear and me.
i woke a bit before Sir Raven’s alarm and went to the bathroom, and headed immediately for the nectar of life. It seems to take forever for the electric kettle to click. I brush my teeth in the kitchen, wait, and then start the process of making French Press. When i hear her alarm, i have two mugs of coffee poured. i bring her coffee and water in bed, and sleepily tell her the alarm went off five minutes ago.
She wants to get up and work on her writing for her workshop this afternoon.
By the time she rises, goes to the bathroom to wash up, and returns to her coffee it isn’t hot enough.
i’m genuinely glad she told me and let me fix it immediately.
She drinks her second french press, declaring it acceptable.
We talk for awhile. i’ve been reading about sociopaths and psychopaths, and i’m putting a gigantic puzzle together in my head. It’s clicking into place left and right. And then i wonder what she thinks is the worst thing i’ve ever done in my life, and how i still feel it was right. Or, at least, the best choice i could have made under the circumstances. i wasn’t interested in revenge.
Then, i leave her in peace, letting her know i was going into the bedroom to write, so as to not be a distraction.
i ask her to come get me if she needs anything, of course, before i leave her be.
My absence from writing always means something is wrong. That things are brewing so hard that i can’t put my thoughts into words. i’m having massive meltdowns. Massive. As in calling friends and emotionally barfing rage, shame, disgust, and terror.
For a person who can’t feel regular fear for longer than about two seconds, i feel terror just fine. It’s just silent. And you’d have to know me to understand that vibration.
This morning, i’m trying to tease it all apart.
Music that best explains how i’m feeling is Beautiful Disaster, and i’m playing it loud in my earbuds, not realizing that i’m singing out loud. Apparently, so loudly that Sir Raven can hear me over her ear buds in the livingroom.
Have i ever mentioned that i literally cannot sing?
When i realized that i’d have to do a full circle time, including singing in front of another adult, i considered quitting my job as a preschool teacher.
i glanced up, the song still blaring in my ears, at the ball of energy coming towards me. I correctly deduced it was Sir Raven, who was urgently approaching, and possibly making the sign for no. Popping my ear buds out to see what she needs, she says, “”Oh, honey, lets hug it out. Because you really and truly cannot sing. Please, please don’t ever do that.”
i giggle when she tells me how loud i was. Maybe the drug guys on the corner had to shove off rather than bitch at each other. Heh. i don’t know what the politics are, but i know for sure that has been a change in leaders on the block. It’s gone from guys teasing each other to anger and tires squealing to quiet. And quiet is never good. i mention this to Sir Raven the other night, and ask her to walk home the other way instead.
Anyhow, she stands next to me, sort of patting my head, and letting me put an arm around her. We laugh together. i make her promise to never make me do karaoke, for the sake of the audience. Um. It’s so bad, she agreed. 😛