Hey look, it's Halloween and November is a few hours away. Two months two months two months (and seven days). Haven't you heard I move in two months (and seven days)? I'm a broken record, pardon me, please, I'm stuck on repeat. Two months is both so near and so far out, it makes my heart ache.
And this past month? October chewed me up and spit me out and kicked me under the rug. So many October intentions. Too many October intentions. I have a diagnosis, which is nice, which is cool. I have a revision I'm proud so of and seventy-thousand words to share and hours of sleep tucked away, nestled in hidden pockets of my body--the curve of my right hip and behind my knees and under my tongue and in my ears. I'm hoarding sleep in preparation for grad school. Sleepless weeks ahead.
But my hours are whacked. Is all sleep good sleep? Mornings in bed. Afternoons on the floor pounding on a keyboard or rolling in dog hair and carpet fuzz. Some nights I go outside and I run and it's weird, because I've never been one to run outside, especially when I'm sick (and I'm sick). But when I stomp up those canyon hills, the static either goes shhhhhhh or is amped up loudest of loud of LOUD. And it's like, cool, I'm doing something. I got this. I'm a master of my machine. This body. Supposedly I was bit by a tick when I was a kid and supposedly this tick infected me and supposedly my body is saturated with Lyme disease. And supposedly in order to heal, you have to get worse before you improve.
And, you know, I believe it. I've experienced it. Physical mental emotional whatever. There's always this drop. The free fall before the rise. I guess it's kind of like an emotional plot line, which make sense. Plots are constructed to mimic life, right? So there you go. So I'm layering on hoodies and wrapping my legs in blankets and napping in a parka lined with coyote fur, a parka intended to keep me warm for forty below. So it's 87 degrees outside but I'm shaking from the cold, yet I'm sure I'm positive I'm freaking certain I'm approaching a turn and the rise and there's bound to be another fall, but hey, at least I'll be elsewhere, at least I'll be trying. I always try.
I guess I'm just attempting to articulate that the days are sad and weird and spooky and glorious in the most mundane of ways and I'm exceptionally optimistic. October was hard and I'm relieved for November's arrival and I'm writing and writing and writing and I finished my revision and I think things are relatively grand.