Butcher Hole

Christ almighty. Every year. Every! year! I do this.

The past week I have felt a variety of things, most of them not great. I have felt delicate, wonky, off the rails, anxious, sad. I've seen that black hole of "you can't do this" open up in front of me twice now in the past week, and I was just barely able to pull myself from the brink of it last night. Tuesday I fell in completely, limbs akimbo.

I've gotten pretty good at soothing myself over the years. Learned how to slice through the crazy talk to deal with what is actually bothering me. It's a lot more efficient to work that way, I've found and a lot more pleasant for everyone involved.

But Tuesday, especially, I tried. I tried and tried. All the tricks in all my books. But the whirling staticky ball of anxiety in my chest wouldn't disperse. Everything I was thinking sounded manic and crazy even inside my head. But I couldn't stop thinking all those everythings. And then I started crying. At work.

My room is beautiful in the mornings. I love it. It's painted sky blue and faces east, so the light is bright but gentle after being filtered through the curtains. I have a hard time getting out of bed. I like to lie there and look at the ceiling and look at the curtains. Freya comes for pets and cuddling and to drool on me. I let my mind wander and pay attention to where it lands and what it chews on.

This morning it occurred to me that it's the end of June. Every year, the end of June surprises me. The beginning of July is when I tried to kill myself. And every year at the end of May I think, well it's been a long time now, it's really not a big deal any more, it probably won't be a problem this year. And this year, too, I thought I'd be safe because I have a really fun trip to Montreal planned with d.jack for the beginning of July.

But oh, bodies. What we put them through. What they hold on to.