Mental Health Day

I took Monday off to recover from Sunday. What a fucking day that was. Like my heart - the current locus of human emotion - had floated up to my skin and was rubbing itself raw, trying to get out.

Early Monday morning, I dreamt that I was at my granny and poppa's house, the house that is the place I think of when I want to feel safe.

It had been razed. Everything from the ground up was gone, just a foundation made of red brick, which is strange, since the house was grey brick. The white wrought iron furniture was there too, on the patio stones in front, the red cushions faded uneven pink. In the dream, I was happy I was able to take a brick home as a momento, but I woke up feeling lost.

I went for a run, got to see a blue heron. I finished a piece of writing that had been hanging over my head. I stood in the sun. Shelley and I shopped and ate Mexican food. Come evening, I had shaken off the sad.

If nothing else, days like that make me grateful I am 33, not 23, when days like that were good ones.