Some mornings nothing comes.
Some mornings I have a headache, after a tame evening of garlic toast, popcorn, and two glasses of wine for dinner. Some evenings this is a win rather than spending money or eating chips. Some evenings getting myself to run four miles and slowly make my way home are bigger accomplishments than I could even imagine. But I do it anyway.
Some days are rougher than others, though not for the reasons I thought. I use the word detachment and I’m stung because it is so close to apathy.
That’s how you lose with me. Apathy. Does this mean I’m losing with myself?
Some days I barely get anything done. Talk. Talk. Talking in circles, trading emotions and scenarios until my throat is sore. In the spaces in-between, I walk around the parking lot listening to a book. Hunger by Roxane Gay.
I run listening to that book and when she talks about the mechanics of bulimia I say out loud, “I can’t hear this” but I do hear it. I try to shield myself from darker options, no matter how far removed I am from their triggers.
Some days I look around an empty office and then an empty apartment and wish for someone to lean into, just for a moment.
Some days I can’t shut up about kids. The want cresting, smashing over me. I say out loud, “adopting a baby would be a funny overreaction to stress.” I’m half joking.
Some mornings I move slowly, with my headache being nursed by Diet Coke and my book open in my lap as I nod off for another hour.
It’s not as dramatic as all that, not really.
But some mornings drama comes.
With Love,
Natalie