A Wrench Is Thrown
So, I was determined to work for a couple of hours at home yesterday before reading The Letter, or at least go to the store and/or clean the bathroom--you know, accomplish something. So I spread all my work stuff out on the table, made myself a snack, and sat down. And stared at a couple of pages. Read them. Read them again. Attempted to cut seven lines from the first page . . . and then realized I was not comprehending what I was reading. At all. Got up, went out on the front porch, and smoked a cigarette. Went back in, sat down, tried again. Still not happening. O.K., I thought, I'll go to the store first. Got up from the table and went to get my grocery list--and couldn't remember where I'd put it. Sat down on the couch to think about where the list might be; stared at the wall. Couldn't decide which shoes to wear. Gave up.
So, I read the letter. Read it again. Stared at the wall. Read it again. Cried a little. Poured a glass of wine. Wrote a brief e-mail to S. saying I'd read the letter and would need some time to think. Stared at the wall some more. Finally called my friend Paul and talked to him for about half an hour. Felt a little better, hung up, and started to feel worse. (Not because of anything you said, Paul!) Called my boss and told him I'd be working at home the next day. Laid down on the couch and stared at the wall . . . and fell asleep. Almost immediately. It was around 7:00, I think. Woke up at 12:30, went up to bed, and fell back asleep immediately. And then had trouble getting up at 7:00.
The letter was something of a wrench, I guess. Thrown at my head. But made of nerf. It wasn't bad or threatening, just . . . unexpected and strange. I don't want to--can't, really--get into details right now. My plan--such as it is--is to print out the letter, take it in to my counselor, and talk to him about it. (This is assuming he'll still see me after I blew off my last appointment and haven't been in in two months.) One way or the other, it's the kind of letter that needs a professional opinion.
For now, until I get my appointment, I'm putting it on a shelf. A very high shelf, away from all chairs and stepstools. And then ignore the elephant in the room. I'm pretty good at that--got a lot of practice with S.
So, I read the letter. Read it again. Stared at the wall. Read it again. Cried a little. Poured a glass of wine. Wrote a brief e-mail to S. saying I'd read the letter and would need some time to think. Stared at the wall some more. Finally called my friend Paul and talked to him for about half an hour. Felt a little better, hung up, and started to feel worse. (Not because of anything you said, Paul!) Called my boss and told him I'd be working at home the next day. Laid down on the couch and stared at the wall . . . and fell asleep. Almost immediately. It was around 7:00, I think. Woke up at 12:30, went up to bed, and fell back asleep immediately. And then had trouble getting up at 7:00.
The letter was something of a wrench, I guess. Thrown at my head. But made of nerf. It wasn't bad or threatening, just . . . unexpected and strange. I don't want to--can't, really--get into details right now. My plan--such as it is--is to print out the letter, take it in to my counselor, and talk to him about it. (This is assuming he'll still see me after I blew off my last appointment and haven't been in in two months.) One way or the other, it's the kind of letter that needs a professional opinion.
For now, until I get my appointment, I'm putting it on a shelf. A very high shelf, away from all chairs and stepstools. And then ignore the elephant in the room. I'm pretty good at that--got a lot of practice with S.
posted by flipper at 11:54 AM
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