I’ve been feeling kinda funny around the edges here in the last few weeks off and on. Sometimes, the day passes and all is well. There have been more than a few days, however, that would likely have been better spent in bed, thereby protecting all those who interacted with me from my snark. This weekend, I have been particularly snarky.
It seems that I am losing my ability to communicate effectively. In that, words are tumbling out of my mouth so fast that people are asking me to repeat myself. I hate that. Hate when it gets like that. Instead of concentrating on talking slower and more clearly, I get pissed. I refuse to communicate. I can barely stand to speak to anyone, nevertheless get around to enunciating.
It is times like this that I let shit slide. And I mean, the shit has done slid here in this house. There are dirty dishes in the kitchen, dog hair lining the hallways, used tissues piling up on the coffeetable, and plants dying of thirst. And while it causes me anxiety that my surroundings are in such disarray, I can’t seem to make myself do anything about it. Such is the dialectic here, people, ever-shifting…anxiety-provoking disorderliness, yet I just don’t give a shit. I think I’ll sit here and stare out the window at the gosh durn snow.
Effing snow. Effing cold weather. Effing February. Oh mother effer! I should probably use my sun-lamp, but I’m afraid that I am on the fringe of a mixed episode and that would shoot me straight to the heart of one. Ok, maybe not on the fringe, but on the fringe of the fringe. Of the fringe. Denial is so cute, isn’t it?
I’m starting to let this broken foot bullshit get me down. And the prospects, according to the doctor, my physical therapist sister, my mother (who invented the Inernet), and everything I’ve read indicate that this is a very slow-healing break and it could be 3-4 months for it to heal, if it does heal, and maybe even then surgery will be necessary. I feel effed six ways past Wednesday. I am sick of this boot and sick of being off balance and not able to do the things I want to effing do.
And for today, I’ve said the effing “eff” word enough and I’m thinking of opening my back door and screaming “Mother Fucker!” to the effing snow. Maybe that little release will keep me from eating DSB for dinner, and maybe I will practice a little radical acceptance around the fact that 8″-12″ of snow (and ice) is headed our way tomorrow and there is nothing I can do about it. DBT can be a real bitch.